Silverheart
by Merlyn Pyndragon
Summary: When strangers are discovered terrorizing villages, King Arthur takes it upon himself to deal with the new threat. To his dread, these cultists have a creature once thought extinct, a creature that didn't take much to its captivity. Now roaming free and dangerous in Albion, it is no petty thing to ignore, especially now that it has bitten—and therefore infected—the king himself.
1. A Fateful Beginning

_10/3/2013 ~ Okay, you shouldn't be here. This story is forty chapters and a hundred thousand words of pure FAIL. Not good. You should just move your cursor up to that little blue arrow at the top left corner of your screen and flee with all haste. I don't like this story and wish that I had planned better before throwing it down here. I'm not deleting it simply because of what it has accomplished, with the reviews and whatnot._

_However, I may be rewriting the whole thing, from characters and plot line to the central conflict. Not sure what the title will be, if it will take Silverheart or something else. In any case, if you're interested (I have loads of better ideas) check back here regularly, or on my profile, for updates on the rewritten and much improved version._

_Cheers  
__Merlyn_

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**Giving this a shot, eh? *********Shrug* Your funeral. ;)**

**Let's see...there's character whump, some violence and mild language...Meh, not much else.**

**Update****: to those who may be re-reading this (if so, I'm flattered :} ) know that I have changed the cult name Wolverines to Blackhands ~ not Black Hands like the assassin group involved with WWI. In addition, there have been some exceptional changes to said group and to a few characters. I felt the need for improvement, and did what I could.**

**Enjoy Silverheart!**

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~1~ A Fateful Beginning

The earth was rich and damp, perfect for the ferns and other flora that sprouted around him and embraced him with their shadows. It smelled so full of life, it was refreshing – until he remembered where he was.

Slowly inching forward another few feet, Merlin was able to get a better look at his king, Arthur Pendragon. He avidly watched Arthur's hands, as did the three knights flanking him, waiting for the signal to be given. Swallowing the creeping trepidation that always gnawed at his heart in missions such as this, Merlin tensed as he saw the king's gloved hand twitch, then forced himself to relax as another minute passed and there was no further movement.

Suddenly, Arthur turned his head to look down at his servant and his knights. Making a cutting motion with his hand, he then pointed at his eyes and indicated to the top of the hill Merlin and the others were lying against. With the grace and silence of a mountain cat, the king moved to the peak, not even disturbing the ferns enough to make them hiss in protest. It was uncanny, the skill Arthur had. Merlin couldn't help but admire the prat – he was the perfect hunter.

After a few moments, the warlock realized that he had been holding his breath, and that he had trapped his crossbow between his arm and his chest while lying on his front. His palm and fingers had fallen asleep and there was a growing ache on his ribs. Sucking in air through his nose, he slowly eased the crossbow from beneath himself, careful not to dislodge the bolt he had nestled in the cradle. He smirked inwardly; had he drawn the crossbow, he could have shot himself by lying on top of it. That would have to be one of the most undignified ways to die.

For another minute, while Arthur watched the road Merlin knew was on the other side of the hill, the warlock listened to a thrush warbling somewhere high above, unknowing of the carnage that was about to take place below its leafy haven. The bird's song was gradually joined by a symphony of creaking leathers and clicking buckles and squeaky waggon wheels, quiet at first, but growing as the procession of cultists marched down the road, unwittingly towards the ambush.

Arthur signalled the approach. Merlin and the three knights crawled on forearms and feet up to the brow of the hill. The warlock concentrated on his every move, determined to not make any sounds and risk exposure.

The cultists rounded a bend, about fifty paces down the road. Merlin's hands tightened around his crossbow. Adrenaline seeped into his veins. Magic roiled in his chest, unfurling powerful wings like an aroused dragon. He was never one for killing, and he knew that even though he'd had to do it time and time again, he would never get used to it, never get used to extinguishing the life of another before they extinguished his – or Arthur's. And this particular caravan of dark worshippers would not hesitate to extinguish the lives of all they came across. This had been proven by the many villages they had waltzed their way through during their trek across Camelot and the rest of Albion, and now that they were but a day's ride from the city, the king knew there was little choice in his actions to halt this miniature but devastating plague.

There was no doubt that this was the one and only infamous Blackhand Cult, already renowned for its brutal treatment of all unfortunates they came across, and for a dangerous creature they had under their control. What creature it could be was unknown; all that was clear was that it could tear the head off an ox like a farmer would a chicken, and that it was unlike anything Camelot had ever seen before. By the way it was described to the knights by the villagers, it wasn't a normal animal either. It was definitely one of magic, and the malevolent cultists seemed to be controlling it completely.

Shifting slowly as to not disturb the ferns, Merlin manoeuvred himself to get a better view of the caravan. It was relatively small, surprisingly, consisting of about twenty men and women. Each had a horse, though not all rode, and everyone was armed to the teeth, including the females. Their clothes were sharp, considering the life they led, and many of them wore velvety mantles with their cult's insignia – a black, splayed hand on a white patch. Their cloaks, boots and gloves were dark, giving them the impression of a mourning procession.

The Blackhands were quiet, as though afraid to damage the deepening silence of the Darkling Woods. In the middle of the group was a large, black-painted, boxed waggon, with bars on the small dark windows and drawn by four heavy draft horses.

Merlin blinked. Draft horses? Any up to no good wouldn't use the slower beasts lest they be overtaken by those on swifter steeds. Whatever was inside the carriage must be very, very heavy...or the cultists weren't afraid of being caught up.

Something shiny in a small alcove just behind the carriage driver's head stole the warlock's eye. Squinting, he managed to make out some sort of silver figurine, like a miniature statue. It was difficult to tell, but it almost looked like a dog or a wolf, but it could also be a horse or some other four legged animal. He ignored it and returned his focus to Arthur.

The king was signalling to the group of the mirroring hill on the opposite side of the road. Merlin was just able to make out Sir Leon replying with hand motions of his own. Then stillness fell, and the thirty soldiers and knights of Camelot waited while the Blackhands came abreast to the ambush lying in wait around them.

As the first man stepped into Merlin's line of fire, his palms twitched and he very nearly pulled the trigger of his crossbow. As though sensing the close call, Arthur's stormy-blue gaze fell on his servant and stayed there, not chidingly, not arrogantly, not even warningly. Merlin squirmed in discomfort, despite the lack of emotion coming from the king, until an unexpected sound emerged from the Blackhand procession.

It was a feral, savage snarl, and it continued for a few more moments from inside the carriage before the driver reached behind his head and patted the silver figurine in the alcove. Silence fell, and uneasy horses stopped muttering while the cultists themselves dropped their hands from the pommels of their weapons.

_What the hell was that? _Merlin thought, frowning. _The beast?_

He was starting to sweat in the light leathers given to him for armour. _Come on, Arthur._ _What are we waiting for? _He hated battle, but as this was inevitable, he just wanted to get it over with.

Now the middle of the caravan passed below, between the twin hills. As it did so, a man astride a magnificent chestnut horse fell in step with the waggon driver and exchanged a few low-toned words. By his garb and superior weapons, he was the cult master, Argus Vane. That was who Arthur wanted to take alive.

Suddenly, the king signalled, _Be ready_. Merlin chose a target: a thickset brute of a man, with a heavy hammer strapped to his back and black warpaint, in the shape of a hand, covering his face. He looked to be a murderous thug, which was why Merlin chose him. If he wasn't taken down immediately, then he would cause devastating harm later in the attack, especially if something goes stale for the men of Camelot.

It was time. Arthur raised his hand—

"_Ambush!_"

The call came from behind the king's company, at the bottom of the hill. Arthur whirled around, more in surprise than as a swift reaction to silence the scouting Blackhand, but before he could shoot his crossbow, the bandit drew the string of his longbow and fired a deadly shaft towards him.

Fortunately, the shot had been panicked and over-thought—the arrow buried itself into the hill just inches from Merlin's side.

The warlock's eyes widened as he stared at the swan feather fletching, realizing that, had it pierced him, it would have pinned him to the hill like an insect.

Arthur seemed to be thinking the same thing. With a snarl of anger, he aimed and pulled the trigger of his crossbow. The bolt sliced the air and passed clear through the cultist's neck in a spray of blood, thudding into the tree behind him. Arthur turned before the dead man even hit the ground and drew his sword, _Excalibur_. With a second savage cry, he crested the hill and thundered down the other side. Swallowing the apprehension that filled his throat and stomach like hot air, Merlin leaped to his feet and aimed his own crossbow at his chosen target, the brutish giant of a man with the war hammer.

His orders had been clear – fire the crossbow, then protect Arthur's flanks on the charge. As the king was already charging, Merlin only had a short time to fire the bow, and an even shorter time to aim. Luckily for the servant, the brute had stopped and braced his feet while reaching over to grab his hammer from his back, giving Merlin the moment to aim properly. He pulled the trigger and watched with grim satisfaction as the bolt zipped through the air and pierced through the mail on the cultist's chest. With a howl of fury, the man fell to his knees, then died as a second bolt, from the other hill, hit him in the temple.

The remaining swarm of waspish bolts hit their targets, most of them being riders and those considered the biggest threat. The carriage driver fell with two quarrels in his throat, but the cult master was untouched, as was specified.

Merlin drew his sword and bounded down the hill after his king, covering his flank. The other three knights followed suit, screaming battle cries and waving weapons overhead. Horses squealed in fear as the Blackhands gaped in astonishment, and then there were shrieks of pain as blood spilled and metal clashed, creating a hellish din that could only be imagined by those who have ever heard it.

The men of Camelot no longer had the element of surprise, thanks to the Blackhand scout, and so the charge had been less devastating than what was desired. Three soldiers were shot down before they reached the base of the hill, and another was gravely wounded by a thrown spear. Merlin briefly saw Sir Gwaine pull that spear free of the soldier and hurtle it back at its owner, who screamed as it pierced his chest. The warlock focused on protecting Arthur, and ducked beneath a man's sickle before thrusting his blade into his stomach. The Blackhand fell and Merlin had to dodge sideways as a second outcast, a woman, sprinted towards him, swinging a wood axe. He stuck out a foot to trip her, but she feinted to the side before grabbing him by his sword wrist, lifting her axe high for a killing swing.

_Excalibur_ flashed through the air in a gush of blood, and the woman shrieked as her weapon arm fell limp to the ground. With a second slash, her head rolled from her shoulders. Merlin batted it away from himself in disgust before it hit him, and as the lifeless body slumped to the road, Arthur came into view. He nodded once at his servant and turned around before Merlin could thank him.

An arrow zipped past the warlock's ear and he flinched, and it could only be because of Fortune smiling upon him that he flinched in a direction that let him see the cultist slinking up from behind. Merlin ducked beneath the slashing dirk and pivoted, making a neat slash across the man's belly. He had no mail hauberk to protect him, and so more gore spattered the road, adding to the already sleek and slippery dirt.

The Blackhand blinked in surprise at the servant's surprising agility and speed, almost as surprised as Merlin was himself. He supposed all those long hours of gruelling sword practices with Arthur were actually paying off—

Before he died, the cultist lunged at the warlock and stabbed at his throat. Merlin threw his upper body backwards in an effort to avoid the angry dirk, and only succeeded in part. White hot pain split his right cheek and he instinctively kicked, knocking the weakened Blackhand over to die.

Briefly wiping the blood from his face with the back of his hand, Merlin came about and watched Arthur's back, parrying a thrust here, a stab there. There seemed to be more of the black and white cloaks of the Blackhands than the red and gold mantles of the men of Camelot, but the tide was gradually changing. Merlin fought by Sir Elyan's side, and together they eliminated a small knot of cultists. A knight and two soldiers fell to enemy arrows, but Sir Percival bound up the hill the archers had taken refuge on and dispatched the lot of them by himself. Sir Gwaine pushed Leon to get him out of the line of a hurtled spear, and then engaged himself with a dual-weapon wielding cultist, a fierce glint in his eye.

"Arthur!" Merlin roared, pointing behind the king. Arthur whirled around just in time to parry the Blackhand leader's blade as the man charged through the melee on his majestic chestnut. Argus Vane reined in his mount, and it pivoted neatly on its rear hooves to face the king of Camelot once more. Before he could spur it into a gallop again, Arthur closed the distance between them and slashed with his sword to incapacitate him, only to be blocked by the cult master's wooden buckler.

Merlin could only watch in awe as, in the chaos, Vane's horse squealed in terror and reared when a Camelot soldier unwittingly jabbed it with a spear. The cult master leaned forward and grasped frantically at the pommel, and Arthur wasted no time in grasping onto him and hauling him from the saddle, pinning him against the ground. The king bellowed into the fray, rallying his men, but it was as though he had thrown a leaf to stop the fighting; no one heard him.

The warlock knew that if they managed to capture the leader, the cultists would swiftly surrender, and so end the bloodshed. He dodged around a knot of fighting men, aiming to help Arthur fully subdue Argus Vane Blackhand. But before he could, another man, this one on a massive black stallion, knocked several unfortunates to the ground as he charged towards Arthur's unsuspecting back.

This time, the warning cry came out as a dry cough, and Merlin was helpless as the interferer bowled the king over with his horse. Arthur was sent sprawling, and Vane scrambled to his feet as the man on the black stallion reared his horse.

"Fly, brother!" he roared, and Vane fled.

"Arthur!"

Merlin pushed aside a wounded Blackhand, trying to get to his friend and master. Warily, he watched the dark rider looking about in equal confusion, clearly trying to locate Arthur and so cover Vane's escape.

Suddenly, the warlock saw him, staggering up and letting his men help to keep him standing. He almost darted forwards to help him, but then the king pointed to something in the melee.

"Merlin! Stop him!"

Whirling around, the servant saw a well-garbed cultist shove the dead driver of the beast-burdened carriage from his seat and take up the reins.

The mission was to stop the murderous cultist group known as the Blackhands, but it could not be done properly if their secret weapon escaped. Arthur was now surrounded by his protective men. He would be safe.

Merlin bowled through two enemies and hurtled himself at the large waggon just as the new driver snapped the whip. The four panicked draft horses bounded forward, smashing aside all those in their path. Merlin managed to latch himself to the wooden dashboard of the waggon just as the beasts were taking off. He kicked hard from the ground and fought for purchase, well aware that if he fell, he would be run over the thick wheels that were rapidly gaining speed. In his frantic grasping, he dropped his sword into the cockpit, where the driver's feet resided. The Blackhand kicked the sword away before stomping at Merlin's hands and arms, trying to dislodge him.

The melee was swiftly left behind as the warlock ignored the pain in his arms and felt for a foothold in the waggon's underbelly. His boot caught on something thin and metal, but before he could hoist himself up, the driver kicked him in the head, dazing him. A devastating jolt rocked the carriage, and his foothold was lost. His shoulders screamed at him as he held desperately onto the dashboard with only his hands, the rest of him hanging down the front of and beneath the carriage.

_What the hell am I_ doing? he demanded of himself. _This was stupid!_

Dirt kicked up from the horses peppered his body like hail, and his feet scrapped against the road before bouncing up again as he fought to regain a strong hold. Briefly, Merlin speculated on how he wouldn't have been able to withstand such brutal treatment even a year ago. Again, Arthur's persistent training was keeping him alive.

_I'll bet he's just waiting for the moment to say, 'I told you so_,' Merlin grumbled inwardly.

"Let go, you numpty!" the driver snarled, going to kick again.

Pain exploded across his knuckles just as the warlock got his foot on the splinter bar stay beneath the front of the waggon. That hand released the dashboard as he howled in pain, but he managed to retain his grip with the aid of the bar stay. The driver growled in frustration.

"Why won't you _give up?_"

Merlin's eyes widened as he saw the dagger emerge from the Blackhand's waistband, glinting savagely in the sunlight. With his terror came his magic, and the cultist's own eyes became platters as Merlin's irises flashed like twin coins.

The shafts holding the horses to the waggon shattered as though made of ice. Freed, the beasts bolted forward, now unburdened by the heavy, wheeled structure. The driver frantically tried to grasp the reins back up as they slid from the dashboard, but was too slow.

Merlin bit his tongue as his chin bashed against the board. The waggon was slowing to a pace that wasn't fast enough to pass evenly over bumps in the road, and the structure was swiftly reeling out of control.

"You blasted fool! Look at what you've done!"

The warlock could not turn around to see what the driver was screaming about, as he was struggling to remain where he was, but by the look on his face and the way that he braced himself against the seat, things were going to spiral into an even worse situation than it already was.

His gaze met the driver's for a moment. "Cheerio," he said, and let go.

By the grace of some superior being, he was not killed when hit the road or decapitated as he rolled down the length of the carriage. It hurt, much like tumbling down the ragged cliffs of the Ridged Mountains, but darkness became light as he emerged behind the waggon with breath still in his lungs, and he was grateful for it. He knew that weeks of pain now lay before him, but the knowledge of the completion of his mission kept him...somewhat optimistic. At least Arthur would have no excuse to belittle him for anything in this battle.

Merlin lay gasping in the middle of the dirt road, waiting for the agony to subside, and then heard the driver scream. A second later, there was an echoing explosion of shattering wood as the carriage collided with some obstruction, and the Blackhand was silenced. Merlin thought that he'd been killed, but when he looked up, he saw the man get to his feet several metres away from the crash site where he'd jumped. Limping, but alive. He climbed the ruined waggon, the front of which was completely smashed against a rock bluff at the turn of the road. He rooted around for a few moments before emerging with the cynical silver figurine of the animal cradled in his arms. With a final glance at Merlin, he grinned wolfishly and dashed away into the trees, swiftly vanishing from sight and sound.

Merlin's head pounded, but he forced himself to stand, though he swayed like a sapling in a stiff breeze. He strained his ears, but he could not hear the skirmish his companions were warring in. He did hear, however, the low scratching sounds, like nails on wood floor, coming from the crashed waggon.

Instinct told him to stay away. Instinct told him to wait for Arthur and the others to come. He ignored instinct.

As he cautiously closed half the distance between himself and the waggon, a rear wheel of which was suspended and still turning slowly, the scratching was accompanied by a low purr of growls, rhythmic, like slow panting. The whole rear of the carriage was a pair of doors, which had buckled slightly in the crash. Merlin stepped up to the doors, his nostrils bombarded by a thick, musky scent of wild animal fur. His heart throbbed until his chest hurt, yet he proceeded still.

The rumbling thunder of approaching horses stayed his reaching hand for a moment, but then Merlin grasped the handle of a door and pulled it open a slit.

Arthur's bellow split the air.

"Merlin! _Don't__—!_"

With a barbaric roar to put a bear to shame, the doors burst open as though a dragon had kicked them, throwing Merlin back several paces. Not a heartbeat later, a huge, hairy, snarling beast collided with him and knocked him over, pinning him against the earth. It crushed his chest beneath its colossal weight, and its fanged maw opened to blast his face with moist breath, rancid, like rotten meat. Hot, sticky saliva spattered all over him, and then the grey-haired monster was gone before Merlin could get a proper look.

Winded and left staring at the sky, Merlin curled into a ball on his side as he struggled to breathe, vaguely hearing the horrified screams of horses and men and the roars of the fiendish beast. Metal clashed, blood spilled, pain raked the air...and then it was over.

Words of alarm and panic drifted towards the fallen warlock, just within range.

"Sire? Sire, are you all right?"

"Are you hurt, my lord?"

"Saints alive! Arthur!"

"I'm all right, I'm all right! Stop mollycoddling me!"

Merlin's throat had closed at the worried voices of the men, but then a smile split his face when he heard the king speak. It did not reassure him, however, when he said that he was fine, because _fine_ could be anything from a splinter in the thumb to an arrow in the knee, or worse.

Limbs shaking, the servant rolled upright onto his hands and knees. Then, sure that he wasn't going to fall over from a sudden bout of dizziness, he straightened, grunting as he felt the fresh road rashes and bruises rip at his body. There was something warm and sticky all over his face, and he reached up to wipe it away. When he glanced at his hand, he saw the monster's saliva mixed with the blood from the cut on his cheek. A long string of spit trailed from his face to his palm, and he grimaced before cleaning what he could off his hand with his pants.

When he looked up, Arthur was striding towards him, pain barely suppressed under his mask of solemnity. In his hand was _Excalibur_, bloodied and coated in fine grey hairs.

"Are you hurt?"

"I was dragged by a carriage and attacked by a giant furry beast but otherwise I'm fine."

Arthur suddenly noticed the smashed waggon – _really_ noticed it – and a look of incredulity grew on his features. "What did you _do?_ I said _stop_ the waggon, not _smash_ it to _bits!_"

Merlin frowned. "There's just no pleasing you sometimes." He ignored the twinge of familiarity caused by the exchange, then his eyes widened as he saw the blood dripping off Arthur's hand, which was covering a wound on his side. "What's that?"

"Nothing. A scratch."

"A scratch, my foot. Let me see."

Irritation creasing his brow, the king reluctantly allowed Merlin to investigate the wound. He grimaced as the servant pulled away, slightly pale.

"The beast did this."

"Aye. I know."

"Is it a bite?"

"You can't tell?"

Merlin shook his head. "It's so..._messy_, I can't really tell until it's been cleaned up. We need Gaius to look at it." At least the king's chain mail protected him from the worst of it.

The warlock backed a step and took stock of the rest of the party. Two soldiers and Sirs Leon and Percival were present, all breathing heavily from the latest excursions, and a few of them more than a bit shaky. They had all taken horses, but two of the unfortunate creatures had been slaughtered by the undetermined beast, and their ruby blood soaked into the rocky earth from their slashed throats. One of the soldiers had claw marks on his leg, while Percival had a gash on his forehead, but otherwise, they were fine.

"Did you see what it was?"

Arthur was tearing off a strip from his shirt. He started to bind a cut on his arm, with increasing difficulty, before speaking. "I think it was a bear."

"A _bear?_ No way." Merlin snatched the strip away and bound the wound for him. The king said nothing, but was clearly appreciative. "Bears don't move that fast, or have long arms, or—"

"Then a chimpanzee with sharp teeth and claws from hell!" Arthur pulled roughly away before Merlin could check his other injuries.

The servant rolled his eyes. "And I've never heard a bear, or _chimpanzee_, sound like that. In fact, I've never heard _any_ animal sound like that. Not even a dog." His expression became thoughtful. "...What does that leave?"

In the distance, a wolf howled.

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**Hm, I wonder what it is? *shifty look***

**This chapter was pretty long, but the rest will be shorter, for the most part. Yeah.**

**"I don't go looking for trouble. Trouble usually finds me." ~ Harry Potter (The Prisoner of ****Azkaban)**


	2. The Wounds of War

_No! What did I tell you? This story is bloody blooming awful! Don't let the first few chapters fool you. I liked the first few. The problem is the antagonists and the ending. Terrible, terrible. This isn't modesty, it's honesty! Now go! Back! Save yourselves!_

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~2~ The Wounds of War

Air whistled through clenched teeth as Arthur allowed Gaius, the court physician, to clean his wound with a disinfectant ointment. Merlin waited patiently with the bandages, sanitized in boiling water, by the king's side, trying to ignore the constant throbbing his body withstood.

"So," Arthur said tightly, "is it a bite or a scratch?"

Gaius straightened, and the king attempted to hide his relief when the physician replaced the stinging ointment to the side. "It's difficult to say. These marks here," he gently brushed the gashes that reached to the fore of Arthur's ribs, "are definitely claw marks, but these," he indicated to the middle of the wound, where the flesh was raw and exposed, "look like teeth punctures. But the teeth would have to be at least two centimetres in diameter, which is bigger than any bear I've ever heard of." The aged physician looked to his ward with an eyebrow raised. "And you're sure you never saw it clearly?"

"It was too fast," the servant replied, shrugging one shoulder but regretting it as his sore back stretched. "I never saw more than that it had grey fur and that it was very heavy. I'm pretty sure it wasn't a bear, though."

Gaius gave Arthur a pain-killer in the form of dried plants that he would add to his evening tea, and then sent him off to rest. Merlin went with him, but was surprised when the king continued down the corridor instead of taking the stairs, which would eventually lead to the hall with the royal chambers.

"Sire?"

"We have Argus Vane's brother ready for interrogation. We should not tarry in finding out what's wandering free in the Darkling Woods."

Vane, cult master of the Blackhands, had escaped the ambush set by the men of Camelot. Arthur would have subdued him had the other man, the man on the large black stallion, not interfered. The rider, Jonathan Vane, was captured in his stead.

Merlin scurried forward after his brief hesitation.

"But you're hurt—"

Arthur growled, and Merlin fell silent, knowing that trying to convince the king to change his mind was as about simple as telling the rain not to fall.

Taking a torch from a bracket on the wall, Arthur led the way down to the dungeons and into the interrogation room, where he passed the torch to a guard and approached the man chained to the chair in the centre of the darkened space. Merlin hesitated before entering the room, but a look from the king invited him in. He came, reluctantly, and tripped over the threshold. Arthur rolled his eyes to the ceiling, but otherwise pretended ignorance.

Jonathan Vane slumped in the chair, muttering softly under his breath. Listening closely, Merlin thought he heard praying. He said the word 'Nocturn' several times. The servant paused, trying to remember who Nocturn was. Oh, yes, he remembered. He'd overheard Arthur saying the name when debriefing his men about the Blackhand cult.

Nocturn was a deity of some kind, a being that the Blackhands worshipped. Villages that were attacked by these savages had heard them scream the name regularly, like a chant. As the yet undetermined beast raged among them, blood spilling and pain shattering the air, they heard the Blackhands declare that it was for the glories of Nocturn.

A dark god, is what he's believed to be. Still, Merlin made a mental note to ask Gaius if he knew anything of the name.

Arthur studied the imprisoned Blackhand before him silently for several moments. Finally, he said, "Jonathan Vane. You were apprehended for activities seen as destructive to this kingdom and her people, and by unlawful worship that lead to the deaths of many innocent people. We sought to capture the leader of your group, your brother, but, consequential to your actions, Argus Vane escaped. Where is he?"

Slowly, Jonathan raised his head. He gazed at Arthur darkly, not with vehemence, but with a chilling disregard. He smiled toothily, and with his auburn hair covering a bit of his face, it almost looked demonic in the torchlight.

"You...have no idea what you've thrown yourself into, Arthur Pendragon," he said, making Merlin shiver. If the king was unsettled by the cold, shady disposition Jonathan portrayed, he did not reveal it.

"Where is Argus Vane?" Arthur demanded again. "Where is your brother?"

Jonathan shrugged a shoulder, teeth still bared in a malicious grin. "Anywhere he pleases now. You'll never find him, you know. He has the blessings of Nocturn on his side."

Merlin admired the courage and coolness the Blackhand portrayed as Arthur drilled him with one of his stares. The warlock knew from experience that he himself would be wilting like an old flower by now, even though he'd been with the king nigh on eight years.

Arthur switched tactics. "Who is Nocturn? Why do you worship him in such a way?"

"Ignorant infidel," Vane sneered. "You think you walk in the blessed light of your false gods, but you only trudge through the shadows of nescience. We have praised Nocturn, the patron of the greatest of creatures, for hundreds of years." He sounded angry now, as though furious that Arthur had never heard of the deity before. "Nocturn would not stand for an ignorant such as you, accursed, _faithless_. He will save me, infidel. And in fact, has already initiated his plan."

He gave a dry chuckle, one that sent wriggling worms of malaise down Merlin's spine.

"What plan?" Arthur demanded. "What were you aiming to achieve, killing all those innocent people with such a monster? _What was the plan?_"

Jonathan merely laughed wryly again, only saying, after several seconds, "To get your attention."

Merlin shifted, swallowing. Such drastic measures to capture a king's attention never amounted to anything good.

_We've stepped into something a bit deeper than we had anticipated_, he thought with trepidation. _Once again_.

"What was it that you had inside the carriage?" Arthur asked now, and Jonathan raised an eyebrow for a moment.

"Did you not see it?"

"It got away," the king replied through gritted teeth.

Jonathan's laugh was cold and guttural. It made Merlin cringe and Arthur's gaze to flicker for the span of a hummingbird's wing beat.

"You have no idea, do you?" He continued to laugh, sounding more like a madman with every chortle.

They got nothing more from him.

Arthur grasped a fistful of Merlin's shirt and dragged him from the room, as though he were the one responsible for the king's roiling frustration. At the door to the main hall, Arthur threw his servant over the threshold (though Merlin's foot still managed to neatly catch it and make him stumble again) before storming through himself and slamming the door.

"Prepare the horses. We're going out," he snarled, shoving past Merlin and stomping down the corridor. Before the warlock could form a sharp retort, the king reeled and nearly fell. As he caught himself against the wall, he shook his head before saying, "_Now_, Merlin."

"No."

Arthur half turned. There was a long pause. "Merlin, prepare the horses."

"I won't."

Now completely facing the servant, Arthur had a perilous glint in his gaze. "What?"

It felt like there was a boulder on his chest, but Merlin never removed his eyes from the king's. "You're hurt. You're weak. You need rest."

"Rest is for the dead. It's a waste of time. Now prepare the horses before I have you flogged."

Merlin didn't reply this time. An ominous aura like an incoming thunderhead haloed Arthur's already dark mood. The warlock held his ground, neither retreating nor scurrying to do his master's bidding, struggling not to quail beneath the dangerous glare of the king. Somehow, it was even more horrifying than usual.

"Listen here, you_—_"

"You need _rest_, sire!" the servant insisted, voice edging on desperation. As if on cue, Arthur swayed, saving himself by leaning on a stone brazier. He grimaced and clutched his side as his injury pulled.

"Stay away from me!" he snapped as Merlin went to help. The warlock flinched, but then continued to approach, cautiously, as he would a wounded dog.

"Let me see."

Arthur grumbled, but nodded curtly and allowed the servant to pull up his tunic. Merlin's throat closed and he sucked in air through his teeth. Now the king looked alarmed.

"What? What's wrong?"

Merlin hastily lowered the shirt. "I think we need to see Gaius again."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Merlin sat on the edge of his cot, biting his lip, loosely turning the small wooden dragon carving around in his hands. He endured rather than actually listened to the low-toned voices of his guardian and his master, talking in the other room with the cheer of grave keepers.

He wanted to sleep, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the gruesome, angry wound in Arthur's side. In the span of a half hour, it had bled through the bandages and festered around the stitches. Tendrils of black and purple fanned out, vein-like, over the red skin that had commandeered his whole side. Pus had already begun fighting a losing battle with the infection that raged throughout the wound.

_It's impossible_, Merlin thought. _How can an injury fester so quickly? There's a high risk of it festering at all, but this fast? No, this is no ordinary beast bite_...

The warlock felt suddenly very tired. He curled into a ball on his side, but as his cut cheek, which had been stitched closed by Gaius, slid across his lumpy pillow, he winced and lifted his head. Touching it, it felt swollen and tender. It must be getting infected, too.

He considered seeing the physician, but Arthur was still with him, and his life was, not only more vital, but in a more precarious state. Merlin simply turned onto his other side and pulled the rough sheets with him, cocooning himself in their familiar textures and smells. It was no comfort however, and no matter how tired he felt, he found himself unable to sleep.

* * *

Arthur waited begrudgingly as Gaius fussed about, fortunately on the right side of the line between dignity and panic. The king's bored expression and drooped posture was due to the poppy milk concoction given to him to numb the pain, and it was putting him to sleep even as he fought its warm embrace.

The heavy pounding on the door was ignored by both the king and the physician. Though great lengths had been trekked in order to keep Arthur's wound a secret, word had somehow leaked out and now there were herbalists, surgeons, doctors and even priests insisting they come and treat him with their top-of-the-line skills and professions. Gaius's mouth tightened as the increasing numbers of volunteers banged on the door of his quarters, which sounded like it could break inwards at any moment in a rain of splinters. Arthur made a mental note to offer complete reparations to the room when all the chaos blew over.

A few moments later, the guards stationed outside managed to summon order once more. Their disgruntled barking about how the latest invaders should warn their medical friends to stay away seeped through the rickety door, and then silence fell.

"What was the pain like?" Gaius asked, startling Arthur out of a dazed state of mind.

"Uh, kind of...stabbing, I suppose."

"And all over or in one particular area?"

"Mostly in the middle, here." Arthur forced himself to look at the uncovered wound to indicate more accurately. "The rest almost felt like a pulled muscle, but on the surface, closer to the skin."

"Hm." Gaius was applying a new ointment, this one more pungent than the last, but stung less.

As more questions were asked, Arthur found himself getting irrationally annoyed with Gaius's constant calm demeanour. Couldn't he see what he was going through? Though the king tried to hide it, especially when Merlin was around, the pain was nearly unbearable, like a rabid wolf was constantly clawing at his body. It made him want to scream until there was no air left in his lungs.

He hid it because he didn't want everyone to worry. Merlin would flutter about like a mother hen while Gwenevere would get angry and anxious and wonder why he couldn't just stay in Camelot and let others do the dangerous quests just like every other king. But he was no ordinary king, just like Gwen was no ordinary woman.

As the thought of his wife bloomed in his mind, Arthur was swept away in a tantalizingly sweet sense of peace. Even as the dull ache in his side dampened to a throb little more detectable than his heartbeat, he settled further into the pillows and closed his eyes, shutting off any more questions Gaius may have had.

He had one last flicker of recollection before his body finally gave into the silent depths of sleep: his wound had spread black veins across his belly and back, and the skin had acquired a raw red hue. That very same distinctive appearance had started to ink its way across Merlin's flesh from the cut on his cheek.

Arthur wondered what that meant, for him, for them both.

* * *

**"****I know you suffer. I see it day by day. Are you sure you do not suffer needlessly? There ****are other ways, Frodo, other paths we might take." ~ Boromir of Gondor (The Lord of the Rings)**


	3. Questions Unanswered and a Slap

_-.- Daring today, aren't we? Do not forget my warnings..._

* * *

~3~ Questions Unanswered and a Slap in the Face

Gaius opened his mouth to ask yet another question, but when he turned around, he noticed that Arthur was asleep, his breathing strong and regular and his face free of pain. His calm appearance was hindered by the angry bite wound displayed in full glory on his right side. Though the injury wasn't deep enough to be of internal harm, thanks to his armour, it was a miracle no ribs were broken. Fractured, but not broken.

The physician paused in consternation, if only for a moment. He then went about finishing dressing the wound and bandaging it before making for the large stack of books he had been interrupted from when the king and his servant came for a second visit. There, he leafed through the musty yellowed pages of an old tome, didn't find what he was looking for and reached for another.

By the description the king and his men had given him, his suspicions about what had bitten Arthur and injured others were fantastical, bordering mythical. According to them, it had been tall, about seven to eight feet at the shoulders, which were wide, twice or more of those of a built man. It was hairy, the fur grey with silver tips. It moved quickly, but it was obvious that its arms, long like a primate's, were its main weapons. The claws were long and deadly, on both its hands and feet, which moved too fast to be described in detail. Its head was elongated, the wolf-like muzzle filled with ivory teeth. Its ears were long and pointed.

It was the latter descriptions, the wolfish attributes of the head, that gave Gaius his grave suspicions. He hoped against the impending tide of myth becoming reality as he paged through book after book, stopping at every mention or picture of the fabled werewolf. He had voiced his assumptions to no one, not even Merlin, though he had a feeling that both he and Arthur were reluctantly thinking along the same lines as the aged physician. That didn't make him feel any better about it.

He found nothing in his stash of tomes, but he knew where to find more.

* * *

Geoffrey was in his usual space – the writing desk in the northern end of the archives – when Gaius found him.

Greeting his old friend warmly, he then asked him to sit down while they discussed the grim predicament.

"A _werewolf?_" asked the aged scholar, leaning forward over his desk, brow creased. "Are you sure?"

"_Shh!_" Gaius held up his hands, even though there was no one in the archives to eavesdrop. "People have an annoying habit of hearing what they shouldn't, or remembering that which should be forgotten."

"Forgive me," the librarian said, inclining his head. He indicated for Gaius to continue.

"I _am_ sure. Their description of the beast and the wounds Arthur received are too close a match to ignore."

"But such a creature hasn't ever been spotted in the many years that I've worked here! Why should it now?"

Gaius shook his head. "It matters little. We must find a cure, and soon, else we lose our chance."

"Are you saying that after they change, it would be too late?"

"No, I'm saying that after they change, it would be too dangerous. We are running out of time. Is there a book here that may...?"

Geoffrey frowned, then stood, straightening his robes. "I suppose there is only one way to find out."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

The Keeper of the Heart winced as the door opened, an explosion of light raking at his already throbbing eyes. He closed them and turned his head away, unable to move from his chair due to the ropes binding him.

"I said I was sorry!" The Keeper howled, knowing of the pain that was to come. "I did my best, I swear! And I kept the Heart safe, as was my duty. Please, no more!" A slap reverberated around the small dark room, and the Keeper gasped as his cheek stung.

"I very much doubt Jonathan Vane is having any more fun than you are, _Keeper_," the interrogator hissed, and the roped man recognized the lieutenant's voice.

"Tiberius! Please, I promise I did what I could, but things got out of—"

"Out of hand? Remus, you put faith in worthless _half-bloods!_ Not only that, but you've condemned Rowan. You can't let things 'get out of hand' when so much was in the balance. Fool!" Tiberius paced around Remus, so that every few seconds, the taunting flare of light from the open door was muffled by his body. "You were given the most sacred of duties. Yet you failed us. You failed your duty, you failed Rowan, you failed your kin. You will never be trusted again."

"But you must understand, Tiberius! The Blackhands had a _plan_, a good plan, one that would have won the Silverbloods favour in Albion once more." Remus the Keeper flinched as the lieutenant growled. "You know how desperate Captain Baldwin wanted to be recognized for the gifted people we are—"

"_Captain Baldwin had his own plans!_" Tiberius thundered. "And the Vanes had no part in them. They and their Blackhands, _you_, are nothing but posers, traitors, half-bloods. You threw your lot with them and destroyed the very images Baldwin sought. You shall never be forgiven."

The Keeper sobbed as Tiberius began to leave. "Wait! What of the Heart? Please don't take it from me!"

Tiberius sneered as he turned, a silver animal statue in his hand. "It already has." Then he departed, closing the door and leaving the lone turn-coat to his misery.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Merlin's dreams were strange that night. He was in the woods, a vaguely familiar woods, running through the trees as freely as the wind. The stars were bright and the moon was out but he did not rely on his vision to lead him. Instead, his nose helped him decide the most desirable of directions. It was strong – he could detect the loam beneath his feet, the rain on the wind, the water over stone...the deer in the grass...

His mouth watered at the thought of fresh wild blood on his tongue, and he lowered himself to the ground as he stalked the unsuspecting, helpless animal. He stepped into a glade...and paused.

He'd been there before. It was strange...It was like the oldest of childhood memories, yet something that seemed almost surreal...

He didn't like it. Something was urging him to run, so he ran.

Ducking through the foliage like a rabbit escaping a fox, he only stopped when he came across a stream. There, he rested, panting slightly. He scanned about to make sure no one was around, then padded towards the water, anxious for a drink.

"_Emrys_..."

The voice startled him. He looked across the brook to see a dark-skinned woman crouched, almost entirely hidden, in the bushes. He could have sworn she wasn't there before.

"_Emrys...I must speak with you. Come to Mistwood...Emrys_."

Merlin tried to speak, but found he couldn't. He stepped closer to the unrecognizable woman, but stopped at the edge of the brook, to notice his own reflection in its waters. He was astonished to see fangs and fur—

Gasping awake, Merlin sat up abruptly, then winced as the morning sunlight, streaming in through his open window, blared cheerfully into his eyes. Blinking them to adjust to the brightness, he then rolled out of bed and stretched, already forgetting the dream of the early dawn.

* * *

Gaius was not there when Merlin made his way down the few creaky steps into the main chambers, but Arthur had awoken, and was sitting with his back to the servant, stretching his arm.

"Morning, sire."

The king turned at Merlin's voice, but looked sheepish and simply nodded briskly before facing away again. The warlock was not slighted by the aloof, indifferent and slightly awkward reply; he was used to such greetings.

"Are you feeling better?"

Again, all he got was a curt nod.

"Your side looks well."

This time there was a grunt.

"Do you want me to check it?"

Another grunt.

_What's his problem?_ Merlin asked himself, but put the thought aside and stepped up to investigate the wound. Arthur moved his right arm back so the warlock could see better, and he declared himself satisfied. "Any swelling and festering seems to be gone. Gaius did well, bested himself, even...Wouldn't you agree?"

There was a long, anxious silence. Finally, Arthur spoke.

"I'm worried, Merlin." His voice sounded haggard and coarse, as though he'd had nothing to drink for days.

The servant frowned. "About what?"

Another stretch of silence. Then, "It never bit you, right?"

"What, the beast? No, not even a nibble."

Arthur nodded and swallowed, a casual, yet vaguely worried expression on his face. "That's—" His voice split. He cleared his throat. "That's good." Cautiously pushing himself from the edge of the cot, Arthur then hunted around for his shirt and pulled it on. As he made for the door, he turned and said, "I'll expect you in my chambers within a half hour. There are things that need doing."

"Aye, sire."

"Oh, and uh, thank Gaius for me, will you?" He smiled briefly once, but even as he turned his back, it faded from existence.

Merlin shivered. That smile never reached his eyes.

* * *

Though Arthur had given him half an hour, Merlin knew that that simply meant that there was half an hour to prepare him a hearty breakfast, not half an hour to relax. Pulling on his tawny jacket, he departed from the physician's quarters and made his way to the kitchens, where the welcoming, tantalizing aroma of fresh bread caused him to sniff hazily and seem to float into the bakery by accident. There, he swiped two loaves, giving the head baker a wide grin that made her smile in return, then pushed open the doors to the kitchen, where a cook was giving instructions to a young, straw-haired novice.

"Not too much sauce there...good. Now give it a toss—_not like that!_"

Merlin had to duck as a flying bowl of salad shot by overhead, vanishing into the bakery behind him.

"What are you bloody _thinking?_" the cook shrieked, a dangerous ladle waving over her head. "When I say _toss_ the salad, I don't mean _throw it across the room!_"

Merlin slunk away before the furious cook could start hurtling pots and pans and raw chickens, and busied himself with grabbing up fresh fruit, strawberry preserve for the bread, plus some cheese and hot sausages from the ovens. He took extra in case the king wasn't alone.

The mixture of smells caused his own stomach to roil with hunger, and he eyed the tray of food just as he was leaving the kitchens. With a shrug, he put it down and sneaked extra morsels for himself, knowing that he had time.

He was just finishing up a slice of bread with apricot jam when the straw-haired novice who had thrown the salad bowl slouched by, a resigned look on his face. Merlin reached over and nudged his shoulder.

"Hey, you okay?"

To his surprise, the youth flinched as though the warlock had shocked him, but then he gave what could only be a forced smile.

"Just...peachy, friend." He had a strange, alien accent, one that Merlin had never heard in the past. Before he could say another word, the youth hastened away.

Though the brief exchange baffled him enough to raise his eyebrows and stare at the man as he disappeared into the hustle and bustle of the kitchens, Merlin soon forgot him and left with Arthur's breakfast, knowing that if he didn't hurry, he'd be late.

* * *

He was hungry again by the time he reached Arthur's chambers, and he longed to eat what he was carrying for his king, but he impatiently tamed his begging stomach and knocked before entering the chambers.

"Ah, finally," Arthur grunted, coming away from the window and sitting at the table.

"I brought extra in case Gwen was here. I guess she isn't." Merlin placed the tray down and prepared a platter for the king.

"No. She said she'd already eaten – we were both asleep far longer than usual. Wake me up earlier next time, will you?"

Merlin grimaced. "You could wake up on your own easily enough."

"Uh, _no_, Merlin. That's what you're here for."

Inconspicuously rolling his eyes, the servant topped a goblet with pumpkin juice and passed it over to Arthur, who took it, grunting gratefully. He downed it in one go and indicated for Merlin to refill it. Much to the warlock's bewilderment, the king swallowed a whole second round, again without stopping to breathe.

"Thirsty, are we?" Merlin said, brow creased in confusion, as he refilled the goblet once more.

"Mm-hm. And _starving_." This time, Arthur only drank half of the juice before turning to the sausages and warm bread.

As usual, Merlin began tidying up the room while the king ate. He was straightening the covers of the royal bed when he felt the unwelcome but unstoppable sensation of his stomach preparing to growl. He coughed as loudly and politely as he could to cover the sound, but it was _really_ loud, and if Arthur heard it (which he must have), then he chose to ignore it.

Glaring at his belly, Merlin finished fixing the bed and made to pick up old clothes that needed washing, only for his stomach to go turn-coat again and snarl in hunger. He froze in mid-bend, hand posed over a discarded shirt. This time, Arthur definitely heard it, and turned inquiringly to his servant.

"What was that? Was that you?" he asked, through a mouthful of strawberry.

Merlin gave a small shake of his head. "Was what me when?"

"What was that when...what?" Arthur rolled his eyes. "Never mind."

Feeling a third wave of hungry-stomach protests, Merlin hastened towards the door, but unwillingly halted as he didn't make it. Again Arthur faced him, frowning.

"When's the last time you ate, Merlin?"

The servant looked sheepish. "This morning."

"And yet you're still hungry."

"...Speak for your_self!_" Merlin replied, staring in astonishment at the remains on the table. Arthur had devoured all the food, nearly twice as much as he usually did, including what Merlin had brought for Gwenevere had she been there.

Arthur, too, looked at the table, but then shrugged. "So what?" He picked at the crumbs of the bread and cheese regretfully. "It was tasty. Filch fresh bread more often, will you?" The king stood, stretching. "You should have said something earlier, Merlin. I would have shared."

"Really?"

"No." Arthur patted him good-naturally on the shoulder and left him in the room.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

The king had a monstrous appetite again by lunch, but as he was eating with his queen in the dining hall, Merlin had help in getting him enough food in time. He himself had eaten more than his fill so he wouldn't have to experience the embarrassment of the earlier morning, especially in front of other people.

"King Olaf is eager for a tournament this summer," Arthur was saying to Gwen. "I think we should oblige him. It's been two years, after all."

"And I assume you'll be in it?" asked the queen, with a teasing smile.

Arthur harrumphed. "Of course! I'm meant to—"

"Prove yourself to the people, I know." Gwen held his hand, but then worry befell her normally cheerful features. Arthur noticed.

"Gwenevere." The king dragged her name out, not in chastisement.

Merlin watched with vague amusement, but before he knew it, Arthur was standing right in front of him, slapping him in the face!

"Wha—? What the hell are you doing?" the servant barked, staggering back a few paces and holding his cheek, outraged.

Arthur looked confused, yet irritated by the servant's impudence. "What do you mean? I asked you a question and you just stared into space. You totally ignored me!"

"What? No, I didn't! I was listening to you talk to Gwen about the tournament."

"...Merlin, we stopped speaking of that ten minutes ago."

The warlock scowled in exasperation. "Ha ha. Very funny."

Now the king looked to Gwen, bewildered. Then back at Merlin, "Are you feeling all right?"

"I'm fine," the servant said, disgruntled. His cheek still stung from the slap.

"Perhaps...you should go lie down somewhere."

"What for?"

Arthur stared, deadpan, at his servant for several seconds. Then he raised his eyebrows and shrugged. "All right, then." He made his way back over to his chair at the head of the table and sat down, and played with a bit of cold beef with his fork.

Merlin ignored the concerned look Gwenevere was giving him and instead studied a wrinkle in the table cloth.

_Had Arthur been lying? Was he merely playing with me? Or did I really just...space out?_

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Arthur dismissed Merlin that evening and enjoyed Gwen's company with no fear of interruption. They sat before a comforting fire, content with basking in each others' presence and listening to the light spring rain on the windows.

"Arthur..._Arthur!_" Gwenevere was shaking his arm, hard, and the king jumped.

"What? What's wrong?" Alarmed, he looked around for danger, but when he saw none, he met Gwen's eye. "Are you all right?"

"Am _I_ all right? What about _you?_ You just stopped listening to me, all of a sudden. You looked like you were in a trance!"

Arthur blinked dumbly. "A trance? But I could have sworn..."

"You looked just like Merlin did this afternoon: staring off into nothing, barely even _breathing._ Oblivious to the world." Concerned, Gwen moved closer to him. "Are you ill?" She felt his forehead, but he pulled gently away.

"I feel fine," he muttered, frowning in consternation.

"But you aren't _acting_ fine." Gwen stood. "I should go get Gaius."

"No, stay here with me, please?" Arthur asked, pulling her down onto his lap. He wrapped his arms around her waist and nuzzled her neck. "I'm fine. Don't...don't worry about me."

* * *

"**We've had one, yes, but what about _second_ breakfast?" ~ Pippin Took (The Lord of the Rings)**


	4. Playing with the Big Boys

_*Sees you still reading* *nails up sign and walks away* Abandon hope, ye who enter here._

* * *

~4~ Playing with the Big Boys

Two days after the strange spouts of oblivious trances and the monstrous appetites (although the latter never really came to heel), things had returned to normal – as normal as they could become, anyway, given the circumstances. There was still a wild beast roaming the near countryside, and Arthur's wound occasionally troubled him to the point when he couldn't sleep; otherwise, all was well. A troubling thing was when Gaius would come back from hours at the library, looking tired and years older than he was, and he was quite aged now (Merlin didn't like to think about that, but he couldn't help but notice when the old man had difficulty standing up or getting around without grunting in pain). Though the servant asked him about his sudden interest of the archives, Gaius said he was simply recalling the faded information of his profession. Merlin wasn't appeased, nor his curiosity sated.

On the fifth day since the raid of the Blackhand Order, Merlin watched Arthur spar with his knights on the training field. Seemingly numbed completely to his wounded side, the king fought with the strength and courage to do the stories about him justice. At first the knights had avoided attacking with their full skill and speed, because of his wound, but as they saw Arthur hold his own against two of them at once, they had at him as they would one of their own status.

Arthur seemed to relish the challenge, and his blade was a blur as he fought Percival and Leon at the same time. He claims to have been taught the ways of the sword since birth, and now he was proving it. _Excalibur_ was like an extension of his arm, and it dashed through the air with the grace and deadliness of a hawk on the hunt. Percival and Leon had to withhold grunts of pain and surprise again and again as their defences were breached, and they had no choice but to make hasty retreats across the field.

Finally, as the two knights' attacks grew desperate and their attempts to parry failed, they surrendered and backed away, breathing heavier than dogs and sweating like pigs. They weren't put down or angered. In fact, they were thrilled with Arthur's success. Merlin smiled lightly as the knights commented sincerely, not to a king, not to a friend, but to a superior swordsman.

"Your turn, Merlin."

Then his smile faded as Arthur stepped from the parting crowd of bemused knights, pulling his gloves back on and unbuckling _Excalibur_'s sheath from his side.

"What?" Merlin asked, blinking owlishly.

"I said, your turn. Grab your sword." As Arthur spoke, he placed his best blade on the weapon rack and instead selected a modest hand-and-a-half sword; it was wise to have a broad range of weapon types under one's knowledge – one could never tell when the need shall arise which will call for a different sword.

Merlin made to argue, but there were enthusiastic encouragements from the men, and the servant had grown a sense of honour and competition he'd once thought pointless before Arthur had begun teaching him to fight in earnest the year prior. He was still far, far outmatched by even the lowest of swordsmen, but he could hold his own in the confusion of battle, at least when no one was pressuring him with the weight and expectation of their gaze, as proven in the Blackhand raid. And he only got about two thirds the amount of bruises and welts as he did eight months ago, with armour and the king going easy on him. Besides, Merlin was already wearing a shirt of light chain mail, greaves, and bracers. It would make him more comfortable to wear a gardbrace as well, to protect his neck from a right-bound horizontal swing, but he rejected the desire as it would add extra weight, and instead moved only to put on a helmet.

The knights cheered good-humorously and made a wide circle around where the servant and king were to duel. Arthur had removed his helm, but Merlin kept his, not foolish or cocky enough to believe he could fully defend himself from a more seasoned warrior. It restricted his vision but it would keep him from being brained if—when—he grew slow or got too tired to dodge or parry. They both had shields.

"Come on, Merlin! Show us what you got!"

"Don't hurt him, sire! He'll need to be able to move to polish our boots tomorrow!"

"Five crowns says Merlin gets first blood!"

As always, the knights were fooling around, but Merlin couldn't help but feel a foreboding sense of trepidation creep up from his belly as Arthur smiled wolfishly and began to circle.

The warlock could tell he was trying to manoeuvre him so that his face was in the sun, but he had no choice but to keep Arthur in his direct line of view, lest he miss an attack from the side.

When the sun was warm on his left shoulder, Merlin lunged forward, hoping to catch Arthur mid-step and surprise him. The king was unfazed and not fooled – he met Merlin's arming sword with his hand-and-a-half, sending the distinct ring of metal on metal clashing through the afternoon air, much to the joy of the knights. The servant's arm rang from the blow, but he swiftly recovered, pleased that he had at least managed to make Arthur stop his circling.

His relief was short-lived as the king pressed the attack, forcing Merlin back several paces across the circle. He dodged beneath an overhand swing and bashed Arthur's shield with his own to try to unbalance him, but his insufficient weight failed him and he might as well have hit a wall. He stepped back instead and had to parry an angled attack that succeeded a feint.

Arthur was grinning still, like a cat had caught a mouse and was just figuring out how to play with it. Merlin felt unnerved, for he was that mouse and by nature, the mouse always loses in a fight...And then he realized something: he realized that this was pretty much the only part of the day when Arthur didn't have to be king, or a prince, or any man of importance. Out here, on the training field, he was a man just like every other, with the same views, same thoughts, same desires to prove himself. Though the exercises trialed his body, they soothed his heart and mind, keeping him from closing off from the normal world completely. It made Merlin understand the true reason for the king's insistence that the servant join them on the field – not for the amusement of himself and his knights, not even so that Merlin had the skills to defend himself; no, it was so that every man could be considered equal for at least one hour in a whole day of tedious social status expectations.

Suddenly, Arthur's enthusiasm spread Merlin's own, expanding it like a man coaxes a fire from a spark. He focused his attention solely on the opponent before him, balancing on the balls of his feet, conscious of the sword in his hand and the shield on his arm. He anticipated Arthur's next feint and parried an attack that would have staggered him any other day. A flicker of surprise was replaced with fresh vigour in Arthur's eye, and a smile split Merlin's own face.

He bashed his sword against his shield three times, edging the king on. The knights roared their approval. The servant led the next attack and Arthur had to concentrate to match Merlin's speed. As the warlock broke his stream of strikes and retreated, not even tired, he saw the king's eyebrow rise, as though he were pleasantly surprised by the onslaught. Then that expression became cunningly feral, and he slashed with the clumsiness of a swan and the mercy of an avalanche – which is to say, none at all. Merlin had to work extra hard to avoid getting hit, finding himself strangely determined to help Gwaine win his bet and get first blood.

Finally, Arthur's chain ended and he retreated to gain ground. He, too, wasn't seeming to tire, though the sun was hot and their armour heavy. By now, Merlin should be struggling to keep his shield up, but it was as though it were not but a sheet of foil on his arm, and his sword felt like a light-weight twig. By the way Arthur made extra motions with his parries and dodges and attacks, he was also full of energy, despite his previous engagements with the knights not ten minutes past.

_What's happening to me?_ Merlin asked himself. _Is it some unknown adrenaline? Am I dreaming this? This isn't _normal!

Their mini battle raged for another five minutes, the knights, by now, mostly staring in unrestrained astonishment as neither king nor servant gained the upper hand or even managed to hit the other a single blow. They must be thinking that Arthur was just playing with Merlin, but the warlock could tell that Arthur wasn't fooling around. He was genuinely struggling to get any strikes past Merlin's defences just as Merlin was struggling to get past his.

As a long sequence of parries and attacks whirled like a typhoon between the pair, Arthur began to laugh. It was loud and boisterous, of amusement, of exhilaration and of joy. Hoping that it was distracting him, Merlin dodged low and made a sweep for Arthur's legs, but unbeknownst to him, the king made a powerful downward swing at the same time as when the warlock ducked.

Merlin's sword hit Arthur's knee just as Arthur's sword clanged down on Merlin's back. No one quite recalled how it happened, but both the king and the servant were suddenly lying flat on the ground from each others' strike, Merlin on his front, Arthur on his back, in the end.

The warlock's whole body rang from the blow, and he thought air would never enter his lungs again. He could see Arthur clutching his leg, though, which gave him the grim satisfaction of knowing that he finally managed to strike the king a hit that would have meant the end of him in a battle. Then he coughed and shook his head, chest sucking in air greedily as he pushed himself to his feet. Despite the abuse he was treating his body with, he felt like he could move a mountain.

Arthur rose with him, laughing no more, a mixture of bemusement, admiration, and a new desire to defeat his weakling servant in his aura. Merlin feigned exhaustion in his shield arm, and Arthur fell for it. Lunging forward, the king made as though to bash the defensive plate aside and leave the servant's chest exposed for a crippling blow, but Merlin sprung his trap, and pinned Arthur blade between his shield and his own sword. Throwing his weight to the right, he shouldered the king as hard as he could, hoping to force him to relinquish his grip on his weapon and be stuck on the defence. But Arthur managed to foil his plans, and instead of retreating, he held his ground, solid as the citadel's outer walls. Before Merlin could do anything else, the king shook free of his shield and wrapped his arm around the servant's back in a rough embrace, pinning both of their swords and Merlin's shield between them. The warlock realized what he was about to do, but was too late to counter Arthur's move as he dragged his own weight sideways and wrestled the warlock to the ground.

Merlin squirmed to get away, sacrificing his previous attempt to disarm Arthur in his urgency to escape. The king pulled his sword free but put his elbow on Merlin's shield, holding it to the grass. The servant abandoned it, yanking his arm loose of the two bands, and rolled away as he scrambled to his feet.

Now he was feeling a tight strain on his limbs, but was utterly bewildered about how he managed to get even this far. It _shouldn't _be_ possible_. By the fierce concentration and determination on Arthur's face, if he was ever playing with Merlin before, he was definitely _not_ playing now.

It was strange, but the servant had an awful feeling that he was going to lose. He had held his own until then, aye, but that was mostly because of the inexplicable strength and speed he had gotten that afternoon, probably granted by the really good sleep he'd had the night before. But Arthur was skilled by years and years of practice, and he, too, was having the odd jolts of adrenalin. Not only that, but Merlin just wanted the 'exercise' to be over, to hell with the outcome. Arthur may want it done as well, but he also wanted to win. Merlin was thinking about screwing up on purpose bad enough to force the king to stop, when his own reflexes blocked Arthur's incoming blade. He tried to take control of his body then, but that caused his downfall.

As he threw Arthur's sword aside with his own, his body was left undefended, and the king lunged forward with an upward hook into the servant's midriff, driving the breath from his chest and sending him staggering back several paces.

He gasped like a fish, eyes wide in shock as he retreated further, until ten paces stood between them. The king's fist was not hindered by Merlin's mail hauberk – the punch had come as hard and powerful as it would had he been devoid of armour. Arthur's gaze flickered from his clenched hand to Merlin's abdomen as though thinking the same thing. Now he, too, lost the triumphant fire in his eye and looked almost worried, even afraid.

_This speed, this power...It's in both of us. What is it? Where did it come from?_

Now a deep throbbing pain filled his midsection, a result of the punch, and he grew angry. He growled, a sound that should have surprised himself but didn't, and crouched in preparation. Arthur followed suit, and at once, they both charged across the small space between them.

Time seemed to slow as Merlin raised his sword to block the overhand swing Arthur was already performing. Their blades met above their heads as they ran past each other—

—And shattered.

All stared in incredulous disbelief as the large shards of Arthur's hand-and-a-half and Merlin's arming sword exploded in a dazzling silver rain, the pieces hitting the grass as the two combatants turned to face each other, equally dumbfounded with their now useless sword hilts still in hand. Somewhere, Gwaine began to roar with laughter.

"Ha ha! You only went and _broke_ 'em!"

Merlin looked down at the sword remains in his hand, his helmet preventing him from seeing Arthur approach. Then the next three seconds passed in a blur as the king punched him in the stomach, kneed him in the head as he doubled over, and then swept his feet right from under him, making him crash onto his back, once more fighting for air.

Three seconds of silence were succeed by a thunderous applause, and the warlock groaned as he realized that their audience was no longer just the handful of knights, but now included soldiers, squires, pages, courtiers, peasants – basically anyone who had been in range since the fight commenced and had felt obliged to watch. Merlin cursed them all.

Arthur came into view through the slits of his confining helmet, a mixture of amusement, triumph, and concern on his sweating features.

"Are you all right?" he asked, and grinned as Merlin growled at him. He reached down to help his manservant stand, and the warlock considered for a moment before accepting the proffered help gratefully. More cheering rang out as he got back to his feet, and Arthur gave him a brotherly half-embrace with one arm, as he often did with his knights.

"Well done. There's hope for you yet."

* * *

**Oh, this chapter was so much _fun_ to write! ;)**

**"If you want to know what a man's like, take a good look at how he treats his inferiors, not his equals." ~ Sirius Black (Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire)**


	5. Nothing is Ever Easy

~5~ Nothing Is Ever Easy

Arthur dismissed Merlin that evening, but knew that the sudden air of relief came not only from the servant. As the big door creaked closed behind him, the king crashed backwards onto his bed. He'd told Gwenevere not to wait for him, for he had some business to attend to, and that was true enough. But now, as his aching muscles experienced the blessed relaxation of his feathered mattress, he didn't want to get up to do it.

His heavy, throbbing eyes closed, only for memories of the day to bombard his inner vision. What had happened that afternoon on the training field could not be described in any logical sense that he could think of. Everyone has their bad days and good days, but this was an insane, superhuman good day, for both of them. Merlin should have been limping out of the room that evening, bruised black and blue from the beatings just like every other practice outcome, but it was like two decades of devoted fighting had miraculously bloomed in his blood and made him a veteran, not better than Arthur, but nearly as good as. It startled him, and he couldn't help but believe that if he himself didn't have one of the good days, then he would have been clobbered.

He snorted. Good days. This was no ordinary day. Something is happening to him, him and his servant. But what?

It should have been impossible to shatter those swords, for they were made by the best blacksmiths in Camelot. It should have been impossible for Arthur to punch Merlin in the stomach like he did without shattering his hand. It should have been impossible for Merlin to be fast or skilled enough to foil the king's every trick, especially those of his own creation. And it should have been impossible for both of them to have such stamina, to not tire even though they had been fighting relentlessly for nearly ten minutes without pause. Arthur himself could have kept going, just not as vigorous, but with the speed and power they both delivered, Merlin should have been panting and sweating and struggling to move by the end of it.

Something. Wasn't. Right. But what?

Arthur felt his body drifting off to sleep despite himself.

But what?

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Gaius woke up three hours after the sun broke free of the horizon, his face in the open book before him. Grimacing, he straightened, trying in vain to loosen the knot in his neck and back.

He had been up the whole night, knowing that he had little time left to discover if his suspicions were true. He'd been going at it for days, but as he lost hope, he fell asleep in his chair in the archives. Now, he tossed aside his current book in disgust and reached for another, noticing that his discarded pile was now considerably higher than the one of tomes he had yet to investigate. There were a few that he kept aside that mentioned even a little bit about werewolves, but they all said little, and they all said the same thing.

This new book, however, looked promising, for it was about the more rarer beasts of Albion. By the date on the inner cover, it was printed nearly a hundred years ago. Wishing that this volume had been at the top of the pile in the first place, Gaius flipped through the contents and eventually landed on page filled with a monstrous beast fitting the description given to him by the king and the knights.

The werewolf was snarling at the artist, long, clawed fingers stretched and ready for slashing. The arms were long like a primate's, good for far reaching and running on all fours. Its feet were like huge paws, more sinewy than a wolf's and longer nailed. Its legs had the musculature of a human, but the structure of a canine, with the extra backward joint, only slightly elongated. The hair was short, but longer on the back, forearms, calves, sternum, and behind the head, which was like a mane of glossy hair. The head was wolfish, with slight changes that made it look demonic, and pointed ears and cruel eyes. And, of course, a tufted wolf tail. Gaius was sure that if he was to show this drawing to any of the witnesses, they would agree without hesitation that this was indeed the beast.

A horrible, gnawing sensation invading his stomach, Gaius read the text on the opposite page.

_Werewolves were the creatures of a past age. Their natures were vicious, their strength unbeatable, but their hearts were human once._

_There was no such thing as werewolf offspring. Their kind survived through an ancient magic no creature possesses today, other than sicknesses – in a way, the magic _was_ a sickness, for those who were bitten, or had come in contact with the beasts' saliva or blood, were tainted by the magic and were doomed to suffer its consequences._

_Once infected, a man, woman, or child had only a manner of hours before they started to feel the symptoms, which included, depending on the person in question, headaches, cramps, dizziness and fatigue, and festering around the bite wound. In two days, they might have undulated between feeling strange and feeling wonderful, but usually, they lapsed into states of stupor, after which they continued on as though nothing had happened._

_Before the end of a week, their strength magnified. They might have jumped an extra foot and sprinted faster and longer, and even lifted things that would leave a normal man gasping. By accounts taken by bitten victims, most were awed and excited about the new found yet undetermined strength, while others, the ones more cautious by nature, were worried and sought explanations._

_It was a misconception that victims turned into their first werewolf on the full moon, but in reality, it happened between six and nine days after the bite. It usually occurred at night, when the body was resting and the final dregs of humanity were being mutated into the disease that was werewolf venom. When the body changed, the victim no longer had control with a human mind, and was entirely feral beast. All it saw were enemies and potential food. It attacked anything and everything, even close friends or family. After several hours, the human mind won control back and retook the body, which transformed back into the victim's original form._

_The next change was anywhere from between one to seven days later, during which they might have been confused and disoriented, especially about the large memory block of their first night. Then they transformed again, for longer this time, and depending on the willpower of the person, he or she might or might not have turned back for one last session as a human. By the third transformation, the last trace of humanity was gone, and all that was left was the monstrous beast that was the werewolf._

Gaius reread the last sentence two more times, as if it bore deeper secrets than it revealed.

_But a cure_, he thought, panic rising. _What about a cure?_

He turned the page, pointedly ignoring the charcoal illustration of the monster, and was relieved to see there was more information there. He recalled that the book had been written almost a century ago as he read the first line.

_Ten years ago, the order of small gifted families known as the Silverbloods hunted down these beasts that plagued the land like vermin. They aimed to kill, no matter who the werewolf once was, even if they were able to cure the disease..._

_A cure!_ Gaius thought excitedly. _What is it?_ He read on.

_...They had thought it too dangerous to risk letting a former werewolf roam free, for if he ever turned again, he may very well begin a new chain of monsters. They invented the 'cure' simply to ease the minds of the family and friends of the victim; the Silverbloods had claimed many attempts to use it, only to grimly announce that there was no time for the cure to set in before the beast attacked them, that they had no choice but to kill it._

_It was for these suspicious circumstances that the Silverbloods were eventually disbanded, after the extinction of the werewolf. Once every last beast was slain, no kings or lords would sustain the order, and so the Silverbloods willingly dissipated with the spirits of those they hunted. Their supposed cure, however, was stolen and written down, and then spread to scholars all over Albion. This—_

And there it ended.

Gaius stared with incredulity at the missing third of the page, torn right out by some unknown hand long ago. He flipped the sheet, only to see the description of a phoenix, half of its information gone as well.

It should be expected, though. Nothing was ever easy in Camelot, not when it involved his ward, Merlin, and the king, Arthur Pendragon. Nothing.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Argus Vane, cult master of the Blackhands, fumed impassively as the last search party returned, empty-handed, like all the others. He felt like molten rock beneath stolid earth, wishing to burst free in fire and fury, but he resisted. He was the master. He could not reveal such trivial emotions.

"Remus is not among them," said Claudius the soothsayer, as though he believed Argus to be blind. "He must be dead or captured."

"And for the sake of us all, he'd better not be the latter," Argus replied tonelessly. He could not bear to think that the Silver Heart had fallen into enemy claws...

"Better him dead then?" asked Claudius, rather flatly. The cult master turned his warning gaze on him, knowing that his hauntingly pale grey eyes would unsettle him. His eyes always unsettled lesser folk.

"Sometimes I wonder if your father's intelligence ever passed down to you," he said coolly. "Or if you got your swine of a mother's scrambled brains." He turned away from the soothsayer, looking over his praying people. They were all huddled in the outpost ruins, deep within unfamiliar woodland. Argus hated hiding like frightened rabbits, but with their people currently scattered and few in number, their state was a precarious one. They must reform, regroup, redraw their plans.

Claudius wisely said nothing, at least until he came upon the painfully obvious spectacle that no one from the last returning search party was approaching to report.

"No signs of Rowan or Jonathan either," he said, and Argus bit back a sarcastic retort.

He felt guilty, of course, that his brother sacrificed his own freedom for Argus', but at the same time, he knew that it was necessary. Jonathan was never a good a leader as his older sibling, and at the Blackhand's current position, they could not afford to lose their master.

"Once things are at last in motion, we will liberate my brother and extract revenge for his imprisonment. Whatever they've done to him, I will do ten times worse to their king," Argus growled, and his soothsayer nodded eagerly, understandably so. Claudius had, after all, lost close companions and family when the Camelot knights attacked them days ago in that surprise attack, the attack in which they were stolen of their chances to reclaim past glories. With Rowan gone and out of their control, everything was sent asunder like ashes in the wind.

"Tomorrow," Argus decided. "Tomorrow, we'll send the parties out again. Tell them to stay away until they find something. Infiltrate Camelot. Track any whisper of howling. Slice open the bellies of every wolf and bear they come across _until they give me something!_"

The cult master bit his tongue and grit his teeth. He should not have lost control like that. Signs of weakness would only pry at the cracks beginning to form in their foundations.

Slowly, hiding his repulsion, Argus put his hand on wiry Claudius, trying to ignore the soothsayer's rather foul breath.

"When the king is infected and the secret revealed, we will no longer have to be who we are not. This shade we hide behind is merely a temporary ruse to get us to the level we need. The Silverbloods will return to Albion, and the Blackhands will be no more. I promised this to all of you. And I aim to keep that promise."

"But what of Baldwin?" Claudius asked lowly. "What if he should appear? We have not sent word for months—"

"Captain Baldwin is a fool and a usurper. Once his order has seen the power we shall posses, they will join us. That is, if he even as the guts to return here. Italia is a long way from here." Argus looked back over his resting cult, some of which looked despondent and discouraged. The master hated seeing them such, and turned towards them.

"Your pain and suffering shall only last so you will forever be in the embrace of our lord," he declared forcefully. "Once we have resurrected his most powerful of creations, we shall be his shepherds once more!" He held up a balled fist. "By the hand of Nocturn!"

"_By the hand of Nocturn!_" the Blackhands roared in reply, their voices filling the night air with a heat that filled Argus' heart.

"And by his will," he whispered to himself, "we shall succeed."

* * *

"**I need a holiday, a very long holiday. And I don't expect I shall return...In fact, I mean not to." ~ Bilbo Baggins (The Lord of the Rings)**


	6. Fatal Favours

**I'm growing ever sceptical of this story, mates. I am afraid that maybe I've drawn the characters a bit off, such as making Merlin more of a fighter. Do you think that I've gone too far? Any tips/suggestions/criticisms?**

* * *

~6~ Fatal Favours

Merlin remained in the dream glade longer this time, trying to figure out with all his might where it was and what it meant. For strange reasons that not even he could fathom, he gave it a name – the Wild. Perhaps it was because he felt so _alive_ there, so _invigorated._

But then the primal instincts, so new and unfamiliar, reared up and retook control, sending him fleeing from the area like a startled hare.

And then he saw the peculiar woman again. The one he'd never seen before, yet she knew his name. She had called him Emrys, but only the Druids ever called him that; they were the only ones who knew his _vërum nσmί_, his true name. And she still wanted to speak to him. He had been unable, in the dream, to tell her that he didn't know who she was and where this 'Mistwood' was located.

When Merlin woke up, his troubled, confused dream melted away into his lumpy pillow, and he soon forgot it.

As he swung his legs off the bed, he realized that his mouth was sticky, and he reached for the glass of water he always left by his bedside for just such occasions. He found it empty and remembered that he had never filled it the night before.

Regretfully placing it back on the table, the warlock stood, and then fell back down as a wave of dizziness washed over him. Blinking, the feeling gradually faded, but this time he straightened slowly. There were tingles in his feet and fingertips, and his face throbbed from where Arthur had punched him the day before, but otherwise he felt fine. In fact, as he stretched out the stiffness in his back, he started to feel fuzzily, inexplicably great!

Pulling on his tawny jacket, Merlin opened his room door and hopped lightly down the steps into the main quarters, spotting the breakfast Gaius must have left and a note on the dining table.

Taking an apple from the plate, Merlin picked up the note while biting into the sweet fruit, only to grimace. The apple tasted as they always do, but for some reason, the texture and flavour no longer appealed to him. In fact, it disgusted him.

Putting it back down, he instead wolfed down the bread and cheese and read the message.

_Merlin_

_I will be away for a few hours. I need you to deliver the supplies I have stored in my satchel to an old friend of mine who lives two houses down from the tavern called the _Giggling Goose_ in the Southern District. Don't worry about his majesty the king; I have found a servant to care for him this morning with a message saying that you'll be delayed. I'm sure he'll understand._

_-Gaius_

Merlin frowned as he read the note, then reread it and checked the back. Nowhere did it say what Gaius was doing. Then he shrugged. If it was important, the physician would have said so.

Though he also found it peculiar that Gaius had said, 'his majesty the king' as if he hadn't known Arthur his whole life, he let it pass as well.

Licking the last crumbs from his fingers, Merlin found the satchel with the supplies inside and then exited the quarters, locking the door behind him. When he turned around, he nearly crashed into someone head on.

"Whoa, excuse me," he said, but before he could leave, he recognized the man. "Hey, you're that kitchen novice who threw the salad bowl!" _The one with the funny accent_, he added mentally.

The straw-haired youth seemed to quail in the warlock's presence, much to his astonishment. _Why is he so wary of me?_

"What's your name, friend?"

The novice merely squeaked and hastened off, vanishing around the corner before Merlin drew his next breath. Hoping that he didn't need anything from Gaius and only left because he was terrified of the servant, Merlin shook his head and went the other way.

He had a curious spring in his step as he forgot about the kitchen novice and left the citadel. He entered the Upper Quarters, keeping his left shoulder to the sun as he weaved in and out of the morning doers to the Southern District. An open portcullis welcomed him to the region and he asked for directions to the _Giggling Goose_, trying to keep a straight face as he mentioned the name. Once with instructions, he continued on, pausing near a butcher shop. Usually, he winced and quickly passed such places, for the smell of so much raw meat and blood in one place churned his stomach – but this time, something made him hesitate before the small store. He then realized that it was his stomach growling at the metallic scent of a fresh kill.

Slightly nauseated of himself, he hastened on, pointedly ignoring the estranged looks he got from those he brushed stiffly past.

He found the _Goose_ on a corner, and then approached the appropriate house. On the door another note was pinned. Frowning, Merlin read the spidery, graceful writing.

_My dear friend Gaius,_

_I regret to inform you that our meeting cannot take place now, for I am working on a project in Gregory's Grove, north of the city. If you wish, you may join me there with those supplies I asked – I put directions on the back if you need them._

_Cheers, _

_Samuel._

Merlin blew air over his pouting lip. What's with this? How difficult was it to do a simple favour?

He could just leave the supplies at the house, but that, 'If you wish' sounded more like a polite, 'Please bring them.' He knew Gregory's Grove, and remembered that it was three miles away from Camelot. He hesitated. He would much rather return to speak to Arthur, but then he owed Gaius a lot, and if his guardian was friends with this Samuel, then Merlin would consider him a friend as well.

Since he knew the way, he left the note on the door and briskly returned to the citadel to collect his horse, en route recalling the events of the previous day. Suddenly, he had the urge to abandon the delivery and speak to the king, and the need made him pause before entering the stables. What had happened that day on the training field? Merlin should have been chopped to bits, and have woken up that morning feeling like a dragon had kneaded his bones. But he'd woken feeling fantastic – disregarding the bout of dizziness – and barely even stiff from the exercise.

Frowning, he finally entered the stables, only for shrill squeals of the horses inside to startle him from his reverie. Staggering back a pace, he watched as the beasts bashed into the sides of their stalls while they tried to turn, their eyes wild, nostrils flared. The stable hands rushed to calm them, expressions of bewilderment dominating their features.

One hand, called George, saw Merlin and approached. The warlock hailed him, casting wary looks at the beasts. "What's their problem?"

"Must be that storm coming in," George explained, pointing to the roiling thunderheads in the north. "You know horses – hate loud noises and flashing lights and all that. What can I help you with?"

"I need my horse. I'm making a delivery for Gaius."

"Right. This way." George led Merlin deeper into the stables, where the neighing and the stamping of restless hooves became almost unbearable. The servant's brown gelding was raging in terror just like every other horse. George frowned. "Strange. Ranger usually is fine with storms."

It took three men to convince, or rather, pull, the gelding from his stable, but he still reared and cringed away, refusing the saddle and the bit. The stable hands were getting extremely frustrated by the time Merlin stopped them.

"I'll just walk!" he yelled over the din, and the others were, if not confused, then relieved.

* * *

He didn't walk, however, but ran.

He should have been utterly bewildered by his sudden fitness, but after the day before in the training field, nothing surprised him now.

The air was cool and fresh, a gentle lull just before that storm simmering over the northern horizon. Merlin's breath came in easy gusts as he crested the last knoll, not even winded. Normally, after three miles, he was gasping and holding his sides for cramps, but now, as baffling as it was, he felt like he could go another three miles without even getting a stitch.

At the bottom of the knoll, there was a pine grove nestled between two hills. It was dark, as the trees were dense, but he was reassured by the thin stream of smoke rising from what could only be a chimney from the depths of the grove. He descended the hill and crossed the final space between him and his destination at a brisk jog.

A small path vanished into the darkness beneath the pines, and the space looked uncomfortably confined. He straightened the satchel on his shoulder and entered the trees. After a few minutes, he stumbled on a twisted root, but managed to catch himself. When he looked up, there was a small wooden hut visible between the sap-scented trunks. A few flat stones speckled the path. A thin trickle of a brook snickered nearby. There was one bird somewhere, but its song faded as it sought a different place to perch.

Taking a deep breath, though he wasn't sure why, he stepped up the path to the crooked door and knocked lightly.

"Come in, Gaius, come in!"

Merlin slowly pushed open the door, clearing his throat as he did so.

"Erm, excuse me, sir. Gaius was busy. I'm Merlin, his ward, and I...I..." The room was empty. A fire flickered dully in the hearth, and by the disturbed dust on a chair and the floor, someone had been there, recently. A second door was slightly open in the opposite side of the hut.

"Okay then..." Merlin nearly made a very hasty retreat even as a twig shattered and a looming presence behind him sent his neck hairs standing on end. He had but a moment to take a step forward and so save himself from being clubbed on the head. As it was, a blunt object cracked across his back, sending strange tingles throughout his body and yanking the air from his lungs. He heard a groan of frustration behind him as he stumbled and crashed on his front to the shack floor, winded.

"Ow," he gasped, trying not to writhe as his spine raged. Then a hand grasped his hair and lifted his head, baring his throat.

"Sorry, mate. I have no choice. I'm sorry."

Merlin felt a dagger edge press against his neck.

"I'm sorry."

* * *

**0_0**

**"It appears that I was so intent on catching myself an old gray fox that I overlooked the small monkey hiding in the trees." ~ Gilan (The Ranger's Apprentice)**


	7. Assassins

~7~ Assassins

"How do you think he's faring now, with that wound? He seemed fine with practice yesterday, but it's getting late – maybe he overexerted himself. You think he's okay?"

"I don't know. That's why were going to see him. You can ask _him_."

"You know Arthur. His definition of _okay_ involves an arrow sticking out of the back of his leg and a fever that would make the devil sweat."

"Yeah, guess you're right. I hope Gaius finds out what bit him."

Sirs Leon and Gwaine rounded the final bend to the king's quarters.

"That was great, what Merlin did, eh? It's like he's been taking secret lessons from some legendary swordsman behind our backs."

"Gotta hand it to him. He's stronger and braver than he looks."

"If he wasn't such a oddity, he would make a good knight, I think."

"...Nah, he's more useful as a servant."

Both men laughed heartily, not out of spite for Merlin, but as any old friends would.

Gwaine approached the door to the king's quarters first, and just as Leon suggested that they knock, the ruffian knight burst through the door with a grin on his face and an enthusiastic greeting.

"Gooooood morning, Arthur! What you doing in bed? Let's have you, lazy...daisy..."

Both knights stared at the cloaked stranger, standing near the royal four-poster bed and holding a simple, down-turned dagger, even as she stared at them from the void of a deep hood. Below the dagger was the king, who remained oblivious to the world and the danger.

Surprise held them all still for a whole three seconds, but then the stranger made to stab Arthur just as Gwaine drew his own knife and hurtled it, end over end, towards the would-be assassin. With an impatient hiss, the stranger threw herself back to avoid the fatal blade, her own attempt to kill the king foiled as her dagger missed and thudded into the mattress. When she pulled it free, tufts of old down feathers came with it, and she fumbled with the weapon before dropping it.

Arthur's eyes shot open as Leon and Gwaine charged in the room with the fury of bulls, drawing swords and bellowing war cries. The assassin whirled around and made for the open window. With the eerie ease of a cat, she hopped up to the sill and perched like a gargoyle before dropping down the other side. Gwaine stuck his head out the window, but the stranger had already gone too far, dropping from sill to ledge to the courtyard below and then whisking herself away out of sight, for the knight to do anything. Leon had moved to Arthur's side to check for injury, but the king was already up and shoving Gwaine over to look out the window himself.

"What the hell was that? Who was that woman?" Leon demanded of the air, but of course, it didn't answer. "I'll alert the guard." He flew out the door, cape snapping behind him.

Arthur ran his hand through his hair. "What time is it?"

"Mid-morning." Gwaine closed the window, locking it with a light click.

"Why didn't Merlin wake me?" the king frowned, puzzled. Merlin was never late waking him. He even suspected the servant _enjoyed_ waking him, dangerous as it was. "Have you seen...?"

Gwaine shook his head. From the bell tower, the alarm tolls shattered the calm morning air.

* * *

Gwenevere finally released Arthur's chest, calmed by his soothing whispers as though she had been the one nearly assassinated.

"Did you recognize her?" she asked, straightening his shirt of the wrinkles she had created when she hugged him.

Arthur shook his head as Gwaine muttered, from near the window, "No. She was hooded."

"Of course," Gwen said crisply, as worry molded into anger. She huffed and pushed aside a curl that had fallen before her face. "I swear, not a year, no, a _month_ has ever gone past without some troll or assassin or sorcerer or _pixie_ trying to kill you."

Gwaine snickered. "Life is never dull around Arthur Pendragon. 'S why I'm still here." He flashed his brilliant white teeth, but Gwen was not softened by the knight's alluring charm.

"And what of Merlin?" she demanded.

Before Arthur could answer, Leon burst in, slightly breathless, Sirs Elyan and Percival on his heels. "Sire, we found this in Gaius' quarters." The knight held out a scrap of parchment, and the king accepted it, reading it briefly.

"Oh. Merlin's just on an errand for Gaius. There's nothing to—"

"We went to the house mentioned on that note, and found _this_ note." Leon held up a second piece of parchment, which Arthur took with a worm of uneasiness growing in his stomach. He read it, stone faced, and reined in a frown. "And there's something else, my lord," Leon continued. He stepped aside, allowing someone else to step into the room.

"Gaius," said Arthur, between surprise and a greeting.

"I never wrote that note, sire," the physician said grimly, indicating towards the parchment from his quarters.

"You never wrote...this?" Arthur held it up. "You're sure?"

"I'm old, but I wouldn't forget sending Merlin to deliver supplies to a 'friend,'" Gaius replied, somewhat disgruntled.

That worm of worry had grown into a snake, and it spread further about Arthur's body. "Then who...?" He stared vacantly at the paper, frowning.

"Is that the knife the assassin used against you, sire?" asked Gaius, pointing at the simple dagger lying on the table.

"Yes. She dropped it."

"It's mine. I recognize the markings on the handle."

"What are you saying, Gaius?"

The physician looked solemn. "I believe someone tried to frame Merlin." Before Arthur could interrupt, Gaius continued. "Someone would have left that note in my quarters while I was away in the...while I was away. They took my knife and attempted to kill you with it, and drew Merlin away from Camelot in an effort to make it look like he was responsible."

"Doesn't sound like a very good frame," muttered Elyan. "That dagger could be seen as anyone's."

"No one said conspirators were always smart."

"Wait, what about that youth?" Elyan asked suddenly of Leon, holding up a hand, palm up. "When we went to look for Merlin at Gaius' quarters, there was that slinky, straw-haired young man hanging around as if waiting for something...or was too terrified to do it."

Leon frowned in consternation. "Do you think he was in on it? He could have grabbed the note after Merlin left; hid the evidence..."

Arthur fingered his chin. "So if they drew Merlin away to frame him, what's stopping him from coming back and pleading his...case..." The snake of unease was now a monstrous basilisk, and his knuckles flashed white as he crunched the parchment in his hand. "Shit. They're going to kill him."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

"I'm so sorry."

The blade slid an inch across Merlin's throat, pressure building on the tip as to deepen the initial slash and minimize his suffering. The warlock stiffened like a board.

"No, wait! I—"

"Please don't talk. You're making it more difficult than it already is. I truly am sorry. Forgive me." The voice sounded young, like a youth no older than Merlin himself, and he had a strange accent, one that tugged on the back of his memory but he wasn't sure why.

More weight on the knife pushed the edge closer against the servant's neck. Blood was already trickling down to his chest and the floor.

"Who sent you?"

"I said stop talking—"

"_Who sent you?_" Merlin demanded, and the youth flinched as though he was the one at his captor's mercy.

"M-my father, Baldwin Silverblood. I was told to prove myself to the cause, but I—_aaarg!_"

The youth howled as he dropped the dagger, and he pulled his blistering hand close to his chest. The knife, red hot from the magic Merlin channelled into it, was kicked away as the warlock stood. He turned to confront his would-be killer, to see him draw a short sword from across his back with his unharmed hand. The youth was slight and pale skinned, with watery eyes and dirt-brown hair. He didn't look like much, but he had easily fooled the warlock.

"I never wanted to do this!" he cried, holding the sword like he knew how but was terrified to do so. "Father will beat me if I fail. You must die." He swung the sword, only for the blade to chop the space where Merlin no longer stood.

Swiftly recovering from his dodge, Merlin lunged forward to grapple the weapon with the youth, only to stumble on a wooden club and lose his concentration. As he realized that the club must have been the blunt object that cracked over his spine and dazed him, the other man sliced at his head, forcing him to duck.

"You _must_ die! Please, make this easy!"

Merlin decided that this man, this _boy_, was either mentally crippled or terrified out of his wits by his own father. It made him pity him: it was better to know a loving, fatherly parent for only a couple of days rather than living your whole life with a beating, heartless bastard for a father. But his pity would not save the youth, not if he kept trying to decapitate him – though he was sure, even if he kept still, it would take several attempts for the man to hit him. He was more clumsy than a drunken elephant.

But a drunken elephant was as equally if not more so dangerous than a sober one, and Merlin had to stay light on his feet if he wished to survive the encounter.

As the sword swung wide to his right, the servant lunged forward once more, and this time managed to grasp the youth's fighting wrist in one hand and his elbow with the other. He forced him back, faster and faster, until they had gained enough speed to stun the assassin as they hit a tree. Merlin wrestled the hilt free from the others' grasp and held the blade to his throat, which was bobbing as he sobbed helplessly.

"P-please don't kill me," he choked, tears streaming down his pale cheeks. "I r-r-really didn't want t-to hurt you, I s-swear. Please, you must under-under_stand!_"

"Who are the Silverbloods?" Merlin demanded, no mercy in his sapphire glare. "What business do they have here? What have they against me? Are they plotting against Camelot...? _Speak!_"

Another sob wracked the youth's body. "I c-can't tell you! Father will kill me! He will—"

"And you think I won't?"

The threat hung like a thick fog, and the pale light from above cast Merlin's eyes in shadow, making him seem that much more ominous. The would-be killer swallowed.

"The Silverbloods are an order of three families with special gifts. They, I mean _we_, are werewolf hunters, though our kind had nearly gone extinct a hundred years ago after the last monster was slain. But—"

"Then why are you here, now? Do I look like a werewolf to you?"

"No! But you're infected. It's too late for you."

Now Merlin felt a tremor of fear. "What do you mean?"

Fresh tears welled in the other man's eyes. "That cut on your cheek? It wasn't infected in any sense that you know. A few days ago it looked like it had festered. Now it looks like a normal wound on its way to healing, but your blood is tainted. You will become a werewolf."

"But that's not possible! You said yourself that the last one was killed a hundred years ago."

"That's what we thought!" The youth's voice rose to match the servant's. "All of Albion thought that! Which is why the other families faded, and bred with others outside our kin, so our gifted blood got diluted and almost disappeared." He shook his head. "But not _my_ family. _My_ family remained pure, keeping the blood strong all these years. We've been in hiding across the seas, waiting for the werewolf to rise again and have our skills needed by kings once more. Now we've returned to this foreign land to battle our ancient foe."

"So you're going around killing those you think are infected?" Merlin kept the sword to the man's throat, still feeling the ribbon of blood tricking down his own neck.

"Not think – _know_. We _know_ you're infected. We knew before today; that Blackhand you chased, that day with the waggon at the raid? He didn't leave like you thought he did. He only went so far before coming back to watch. He saw you wipe your face, saw the blood mingled with the werewolf venom after the beast drooled on you. The Silverbloods wouldn't have found out, only we had been following Argus Vane and his Blackhands for days, on account of the rumours trailing after the cult like fresh tracks in snow, and we...found that man and interrogated him for information."

Merlin recalled the Blackhand, the one the servant had tried to stop from fleeing with the waggon and the monster inside it. He had dashed into the woods with that silver animal figurine. Until then, Merlin had completely forgotten about him.

Now, he had a million questions. He started with, "Is there a cure?"

"No."

The sudden reply was detected as false. Merlin's lip curled in a snarl. "You lie." The flicker of fear in the youth's eye confirmed his suspicions. "What is it? Tell me, or—"

"You only have a few days, two at most," the man blurted. "It's best you see your friends and family one last time, because no matter what you do to me, you will be hunted down by the great Silverbloods like the monster you have become."

Despair squeezed Merlin's heart. No, this couldn't be! He was about to beat the truth out of the man, even if he had to bring him within an inch of his life to do so, because if he was infected, then so was Arthur. He never got the chance, however, for the shrill whistle of a firing crossbow shattered the silence. With the speed he now knew was owed to the werewolf venom in his veins, Merlin dodged to the side, and was surprised to see the bolt bury itself in the heart of the would-be assassin. The youth screamed once as his last breath was forced from his chest, and then he slumped to the ground, lifeless.

Merlin whirled around in search of the newest assailant, and saw a flash of movement between the trees. Though he couldn't see its face, he noticed that it had hair as pale as the moon. He considered chasing after the figure, but thought better of it. If there were more, then there could be an ambush. If he was slain, then there was no one to warn Arthur.

He spared no energy in his haste to return to Camelot. He sprinted from the grove, up the hill, across the fields, all the way back to the city, never slowing, never wavering, never tiring.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

"I'm going after him," Arthur announced, already striding for the door.

"But they could be expecting such a course of action if their assassin failed," said Elyan, barring the way. "Send us out."

"Merlin would have been gone nearly an hour, now," said Leon. "There was an apple he didn't finish, and it had browned quite a bit. He may already be—"

"I'm going with or without you," Arthur snapped, trying to shove past. "If they kill him—"

"Cool your pinfeathers, ladies," Gwaine interrupted, still staring out the window. He nodded his chin at something down in the courtyard. "He's there. Damn, look at him go!"

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Merlin had dodged around whatever he couldn't jump over, never easing up on his reckless pace on his way back to the citadel. Citizens had barked angrily or gasped in shock as he sprinted past them as though a demon was on his tail, and even when the citadel's portcullis came into view, he was not soothed and ran even faster, surprising the guards. They fortunately recognized him and so did not give chase.

Merlin would have outstripped them anyway.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Everyone rushed to all look at once, squishing Gwaine against the sill. Those at the front managed to see the young servant bolting across the cobblestones as if fleeing a flood. Merlin then took the stairs three at a time and vanished through the front doors.

Arthur appeared relieved, though he hid it a moment later. "Let's hear his story before planning our next move."

* * *

**Merlin's story, when we return after these messages.**

**...I don't have any.**

"**I think if you're going to kill somebody, kill them! Don't stand around talking about it!" ~ Anna Valerious (Van Helsing)**


	8. An Unfavourable Truth

**You know what I don't like? Those entire afternoons dedicated solely to homework. You know, 3 o'clock to 9 o'clock? Not because you've been procrastinating and are paying the penalty, just...one of those days...**

**-.-**

* * *

~8~ An Unfavourable Truth

Merlin, breathing heavily after his sprint back to Camelot, would say nothing until only Gaius and Arthur were in the room, for reasons he would not reveal. Disgruntled, the others left as Arthur ordered them out, even Gwen, even though she avidly insisted on remaining to hear what had occurred that morning with the servant.

"All right. What happened?" The king leaned against the table, arms crossed, a frown of consternation dominating his features. He ignored the bloodstains on the others' neckerchief, which had been raised to hide the cut on the servant's throat. At least, he tried to.

Suddenly, Merlin looked really awkward. He shifted from foot to foot, unsure of how to proceed. After a few false starts, he began with when he had found the note from Gaius that Gaius had never written, then made his way to the Southern District, and from there, Gregory's Grove, where he was ambushed and nearly killed.

"Wait, you said you went on foot?" Arthur interrupted, holding up his hands. "How did you get there and back so fast?"

Merlin paused as he considered his answer. "...I ran. And I sprinted back."

"...Sprinted."

"Aye...That brings me to the...other part..." The servant wrung his hands. "When I overcame my attacker, I forced information from him—" He ignored the disbelieving smirk Arthur gave him. "—And he told me something about an order of Silverbloods."

A new expression now took Gaius, but he said nothing.

"They're werewolf hunters," Merlin continued, suddenly refusing to meet Arthur's gaze. The king shrugged.

"So? What has that got to do with us?" But somewhere, deep within him, he already knew the answer.

The servant was biting his lip. He sat down in the nearest chair and stared at his hands. "There is a reason why I could hold my own yesterday while sparring with you, Arthur, and why we both managed to go for so long without having to slow or rest." Merlin must have seen the flicker of apprehension the split second he met his gaze. "We've been infected."

Had the king not suspected something like this, he would have either laughed at Merlin, scoffed him mercilessly, or had him examined for insanity. As it was, he put his knuckles to his mouth, head bowed, and said nothing for nearly two minutes. The others remained silent, and an air of restlessness filled the room. Then Arthur looked to Gaius.

"You knew this."

The aged physician shook his head. "I have been researching in the archives for the past week. I only found out after dawn today what has happened to you, though I had been hoping for otherwise. You are indeed infected by the beast." His mouth was a grim line. "And I fear that your first turn will come sooner than late."

Despair spread through his chest, the emotion might as well being fatal internal bleeding for what his fate had now become. "So that's it, then." Arthur pushed himself away from the table and wandered to the window, keeping his face an unreadable mask.

"Arthur—"

"I know what you're going to say, Merlin, but it's too dangerous having me around, now. If I turn, I will kill people. There is nothing that can be done."

"Arthur, you aren't the only one—"

"Well, you can make your own decision. If you think you can stand murdering those you love and care for, then it's your choice. I—"

"_Damn it_, Arthur! There's a _cure!_" Merlin roared, and the king turned in bewilderment. The servant hardly ever yelled, not if he knew what's good for him. Then he registered what he had said and felt hope slow the reaching tendrils of dread that crept towards his heart.

"A cure?"

Merlin glanced once at Gaius, and then shifted uncomfortably. "Well, sort of."

Arthur scowled, growing impatient. "Sort of? What does that mean?"

Gaius now took a step forward. "The Silverbloods had claimed to have found a cure of some kind for the werewolf curse a hundred years ago. It had long since been recorded and written in old books, but the one we have has been...stolen."

Now Merlin was watching the physician in shock. "Stolen? You mean torn out?"

Gaius nodded. "Long ago."

"Then how do _you_ know?" demanded Arthur of Merlin, glaring as though he were responsible for the missing cure.

"The man who attempted to kill me tried to say there wasn't one, but I could tell he was lying."

Grumbling in frustration, Arthur paced the room. "Why aren't things ever easy?"

"I've been asking myself that for the past few years," said Gaius stiffly, glancing once at his ward.

The king stopped. "Have you checked every book and scroll in the archives?"

"No. It certainly feels like it, though. I shall continue searching for a cure, sire. I'm not sure if we have something so rare in two books, but I will try."

"I'll help," Merlin said immediately, unfazed by such a monotonous task. Arthur smiled for the first time that day.

"I assure you, of help you will not lack." Then the king's expression became thoughtful. "We must keep this a secret unless there is no alternative but to..." He made a slicing motion across his own throat, and humorously ignored the look of horror that flashed across Merlin's face.

BAM!

"I _KNEW_ IT!"

Arthur nearly drew his sword and Merlin sprang to his feet as both doors to the king's chambers burst open and smashed into either wall, as though someone had charged into them with a great battering ram. But it was only Gwaine.

Arthur's shoulders slumped in exasperation as Merlin looked embarrassed at his fright.

"Knew what, _Gwaine?_" Arthur growled as the knight lowered his arms, raised from shoving the doors open like he meant business.

A puzzled yet thoughtful expression overcame Gwaine's features. "Um, I don't know. It just seemed like the most appropriate thing to say at the time."

"Blundering _goon_," Leon grumbled, elbowing past the other knight and into the room. Percival and Elyan were not far behind, and both were grim after their eavesdropping. "Sire, is it true? That you've been...That you are..."

The king glanced at Merlin, as if seeking council, but the servant betrayed no emotion. Chewing his lip, Arthur chose his next words carefully, and found that they were few. "It's true. Merlin and I—"

"Are engaged!"

"What? _No!_"

Gwaine grinned as the others cast him an estranged looks.

"Why are you so _weird_ all of a sudden?" Leon demanded. Then he shook his head. "So that beast, the Blackhands' beast, is a..." He seemed hesitant to say it. "Werewolf?"

Arthur nodded, and Merlin muttered softly, "Inescapably."

Percival shook his head in frustrated despair, while Elyan pushed a chair a few inches across the floor as though its previous position had disturbed him.

"So, what do we do?" asked Leon, like he was expecting the answer to spring in through the open window. It didn't.

* * *

"**Do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement. Even the very wise cannot see all ends." ~ Gandalf the Grey (The Lord of the Rings)**


	9. Silverblood

**Things are going to get a bit more supernatural (as if they aren't already) later in the story; I'm warning you now, but you don't have to worry about that for another fifty-six thousand chapters, so it's all good. :) Perhaps you readers who've read my other story, The Knight's Mare, remember the Archons...?**

* * *

~9~ Silverblood

Baldwin Silverblood took the news of his son's death with barely a flicker of emotion. He simply nodded at the messenger, a man with shoulder length, white-blonde hair and black eyes like twin voids, and turned to face the assembly of his kin, or what remained of them.

"The time has come for us once more, brethren," Baldwin Silverblood announced, his thickly-accented voice carrying through the cavern of the abbey ruins with the force of a true leader. "Our greatest enemy, an enemy of thousands of years, has risen once more to plague this foreign land. Those of the mundane blood shall fight, but they will also lose. Our time has come again!"

The crowd cheered as Baldwin raised an arm, creating a deafening din that miraculously didn't bring the remains of the ancient stone building down around their ears. Those participating weren't many in number, no more than thirty, but their enthusiasm made up what they lacked in quantity.

"Cesare's death will not be in vain!" Baldwin bellowed over the noise. "We shall avenge your brother, avenge my son. Blood for blood! Life for life! The beast shall die, along with all of its kin, before their pestilence spreads and kills Albion. This I swear to you!" The roars of approval renewed, but calmed as their captain spoke again. "I only ask for your undying and unwavering loyalty, to your family, to your blood, to me! We must hold steady, together, if we are to withstand the onslaught of the beast, for if we falter, we will all fall. It is true, our kind has dwindled, and divided, and our blood has been diluted with those of lesser hearts, but we are the chosen ones! Chosen by the great Archons Larentia and Nocturn to protect the world from its demons and monsters. As our ancestral leader said one hundred years ago, We shall prevail, even if we are so surrounded with evil that the sun is blackened by their wings and the earth has drowned beneath their foul bodies. We shall prevail, because we are the chosen ones! We are the true Silverbloods!"

Baldwin bathed himself in the thunderous applause, pleased on how the abbey magnified the sound as though the run-down building was overflowing with his family. Then he stepped down from behind the alter and led his first lieutenant, Asmodius, off to a side room, to speak in private. The man waited expectantly yet expressionlessly for his leader to speak, his moon-white blonde hair a stark contrast to the dark stone of the walls.

"Tell me how Cesare died," said Baldwin, his deep voice cutting through the dwindling applause in the other room. His icy blue eyes held Asmodius's black ones, a gaze that would make any lesser man quake in distress.

Asmodius straightened his shoulders, and tried to put on a shuddering voice as he recounted the misadventure. Baldwin could hear the false sorrow, but couldn't care less.

"I watched your son as you asked, captain. He had done well in following your plan exactly, and the infected servant came to Gregory's Grove. Unfortunately, he wasn't strong enough to kill, and the servant overwhelmed and slaughtered him in moments. I've never seen such a man so easily succumb to the curse – perhaps he even encouraged it." A sneer befouled the man's otherwise handsome face. "What your son lacked in strength he made up with courage and intelligence – he told the werewolf nothing...important."

Baldwin nodded, not proud of his son but glad that he hadn't embarrassed the Silverblood reputation, one that would soon flourish once again. "And the body?"

"After I tried and failed to kill the beast, I had to flee, else it turned on me. But when I returned, I found Cesare's remains and buried them in the way of our kind." Asmodius bowed lightly. "I hope that pleases you, sir."

"That is just fine," the leader replied, not really paying attention to his left-hand man anymore. He took a deep breath, already forming new plans on how to bring an end to the disease that was the werewolf before it contaminated the world once more. "Perhaps I should have given you the Heart, just for a while. Tiberius still has it..."

"And, sir? There's one more thing."

"What?"

"The servant boy is a sorcerer. I could See his magic."

Baldwin hid his astonished reaction well. "Is he, now? Well, that makes him a high priority." His thoughts were hidden by a mask of deep consideration. Then, "How went the second operation?"

Now Asmodius looked more uncomfortable. "Sophia failed. The infected king lives."

Baldwin grunted. "Pity. It appears that cleaning up the Blackhands' mess is proving harder than initially anticipated. We must proceed to our second plan."

"And what is that, sir?"

A bobcat couldn't have bested Baldwin's grin. "If we cannot lure the wolves out from their den, then we must enter and catch them while they slumber."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Merlin finished the first pile of useless scrolls and moved onto the next, suppressing the yawn that crept up on him like a stalking cat. Gaius returned with a fresh set of candles and replaced the old ones, which sobbed ivory wax onto the polished archive table. As the physician sat down in his creaky, unyielding chair, Merlin stretched a kink in his neck, grunting as he did so.

"Is it dark yet?" he asked, then grimaced as his throat tugged painfully. He reached for his goblet but was disappointed to find it empty.

"It is," Gaius replied, not curious as to why the warlock wanted to know because he had already guessed at what he was up to.

"Can you hold the fort? I'll be a couple hours."

"Take all the time necessary." As Merlin got up to leave, Gaius turned in his chair and spoke just before the servant left the room. "And Merlin, watch yourself. I fear time is running out."

The warlock nodded grimly and departed, his heart heavier than it was a moment ago.

Out in the hall, the air was much cooler, but soothingly so. After so many hours of drowning in the musty, ancient air stirred up by the old tomes and scrolls, it was a refreshing reprieve. Merlin's step grew more hearty, for he didn't need a rusty library when he knew of a much older, living source of information, one that came with but a few words of summoning, even if he had no choice. But it wasn't just knowledge Merlin sought: he dearly wished to see his scaly friend Kilgharrah, for it had been nearly a month since they had last spoken.

Merlin had many questions to ask the age-old dragon, including how Aithusa fared and if he's satisfied with how the world had changed over the past quarter century, during which he had been trapped beneath Camelot by orders of the late King Uther. Merlin doubted much had altered, but he was happy for the dragon – a creature of the air should never be kept beneath the ground like a monster, to grow blind in the darkness and die never feeling the wind under-wing ever again.

Then the warlock's thoughts were rudely interrupted by a sudden stabbing pain in his belly. Breath catching in his throat, Merlin staggered into the wall, gasping as the agony gradually receded, fading like it had never been.

He waited for a few minutes, dreading the return of the pain, but it didn't, and he gingerly straightened and continued down the hall. His apprehension quickened his pace, and just as he reached the front doors of the Main Hall, he was wracked with a second flare of internal agony, in his chest this time. He grunted and keeled to the side, hitting his shoulder against a pillar.

The two guards by the door looked to him in confusion and concern, but did not move from their posts. Merlin retched emptily, holding his stomach, and the guards glanced at each other knowingly, figuring that the servant was just drunk.

Again, the pain ebbed away like the ocean tide, but Merlin was not appeased. He straightened and made to exit, but the guards barred the way with their halberds.

"It's best if you stay inside, son," the first said loudly. "Can't wander around like that, no you can't."

"I need...but I need to..." Merlin gasped as his chest tightened, as though a rope was slowly constricting around his midriff. "Out...I need to leave..."

The second guard rolled his eyes at the first and passed him his halberd. Then he made his way over to Merlin and threw his arm across his own shoulders in support. "Come on, son. I'll take you to Gaius."

"Get away from me," Merlin snarled, pulling away from the man's aid. Then he shot off down the hall, and before long, he lost the pursuing guard in the maze of corridors. The warlock knew the castle like the back of his hand, and he rerouted his path and took the shortest root to the armoury, which had a side room that led to a rather inconspicuous door into the siege tunnels.

His next fit left him writhing on the floor just before the armoury. He stifled his screams with his fist as what felt like a wolverine ravaged his stomach from the inside. The pain didn't vanish completely like before, but stayed like he had just eaten a small morsel of raw chicken and it was rebelliously disagreeing with him. He forced himself to stand and snatch a torch from a bracket on the wall. He took the little-known door and slipped down a set of dusty stairs, and from there, the labyrinth of siege tunnels below the citadel. If one knew them well enough, he could go anywhere quickly, even outside the city. Merlin had used them several times, including the couple of days he had harboured a Druid girl called Freya.

He had to shake away the sudden memories, not only because they made his heart ache with sorrow, but because they distracted him from his current crisis.

_Out, out! Have to get out before—_

He stumbled, screaming as a shattering pain ripped through his leg. Clutching at is uselessly, he pictured the bone breaking the skin, only to check to see that it looked normal. He waited in agony as two minutes passed and the pain showed no signs of letting up. Staggering to his feet, he pressed on, trying to ignore the white spots blooming before his eyes.

_Where is it? Where is it...? There!_

The final grate leading to the outside came into view, and he dropped his torch before slamming against it, his hands grasping at the bars. _Let me out!_ He tugged and pushed helplessly at the metal, but then his heart seemed to burst and he blacked out.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Arthur retched again, spewing up the undigested contents of his dinner on the cold floor. Gwen tried to comfort him, but he could not hear her; he only heard the roar in his ears as agony tore through his spine once more, making him arch his back and fall on his side, struggling to withhold screams of utter torment.

He vaguely heard himself ordering at Gwen to leave, and vaguely noticed her stay behind anyway. Between bouts of pain, which lengthened every time, he lay there, panting like an overworked hound, shuddering in silence in an attempt to prevent the guards from being alerted. His goal was getting increasingly difficult to hold, for the attacks came at random, coming as a surprise even as he expected them.

Arthur shoved a fist into his mouth as the newest episode sprang unbidden in his stomach, like an entire hive of aggravated wasps had been jammed down his throat and into his belly. This one receded faster than others, and the king coughed up the blood that had collected in his mouth from biting his tongue. As he stared at the little ruby puddle on the hardwood, he had the sudden inclination to wipe it up with his sleeve, and then he fell face down to the floor, unconscious.

* * *

"**Legends are a way of understanding things greater than ourselves. Forces that shape our lives, events that defy explanation. Individuals whose lives soar to the heavens or fall to the earth. This is how legends are born...The thing about legends is, sometimes, they're true." ~ Carter Slade (Ghost Rider)**


	10. Desperate Men Leads to

~10~ Desperate Men Leads to...

Merlin was curled into a ball when he woke up, quivering like a wet kitten, meek and helpless. As he uncoiled himself, he realized how damp he had become from the moist morning air and the small trickle of water tip-toeing its way out through the grate near his head. His nostrils were clogged with the sharp odour of burned tar and soggy vegetation, and he abruptly remembered where he was.

He sat up on one shuddering arm, glancing out the grate to the forest and up the passage that came from beneath Camelot. Songbirds greeted the dawn with happy, blissful melodies, uncaring about the world outside their nests. Merlin, for one, was stiff from being coiled up like a mouse and had a persistent throbbing in his skull that felt like it was going to force his eyes from their sockets. And he was cold, not to mention starving.

His hand brushed the dead torch as he pushed himself to his knees, and he looked down at it, noticing while he did so that his clothes were torn, as though he had tried to rip them off but failed.

_But it's all right_, he thought, attempting to swallow past the dry lump in his throat. _I didn't turn. No one was hurt...Though I haven't gotten any answers_. He abruptly recalled his mission of the previous night, when he was supposed to summon Kilgharrah the dragon and ask him about the werewolf curse. _Well, I'm not going to risk calling him during the day_.

He felt a profound sense of failure as he rose to his feet, his knees quivering lightly. He used the wall to balance himself and then retraced his steps back to the castle.

Distracted as he was, he forgot about his service to Arthur entirely and sat on the front steps leading into the Main Hall, inside of which he had nearly exited the night before but was stopped by the guards. There, he stared vacantly at the horseman statue on its platform at the foot of the stairs. The tip of the man's lance was gleaming in the rising sun, but the rest was cast in shadow. The warlock shivered in the cool morning air. A few early risers glanced strangely at him as they passed by, and he remembered that his clothes were damp and slightly torn. He didn't really care.

For nearly an hour he sat there, wallowing in self-pity and remorse, until the sun climbed high enough to peek over the walls of the citadel and into the courtyard below, like a child into a cookie jar. As the warming rays gently coaxed the chill from his limbs, Merlin relaxed and began to doze, only for the loud blares of announcement horns to rudely disturb his sought-out peace. Disgruntled, he glanced up and saw a small party on horseback trot proudly into the yard, the loud clacking of shod hooves reverberating off the stone walls.

Merlin watched them curiously, squinting to see the crest the newcomers had blazoned on their chests. It was a silver deer, or perhaps a stag, on a field of black. He did not recognize them as courtiers from another kingdom, nor were they mercenaries or freelances, but they were definitely warriors, due to their light armour and the varied weapons that were strapped to their backs and hips. A couple wore black cloaks with hoods, concealing their faces jealously, and they looked like they spent most of their time on the road.

The lead man, tall, slightly aged, with salt and pepper hair and beard, let the servants suddenly swarming into the courtyard take hold of his horse's bridle, and dismounted. A click and squeaking hinges sounded behind and above Merlin, and he stood to see Arthur emerge from the Main Hall with Gwen on his arm and his knights at his flanks. The king looked haggard, although those with little experience would be fooled by the mask of royal solemnity he displayed. Gwen seemed worried, and behind them, Gwaine and Leon appeared to be seething, as if strictly against the current events.

Merlin stepped aside as Arthur and his progression marched down the stairs. The king glanced once at him with empty eyes before continuing, until he met the newcomer near the horseman statue.

"Lord Pendragon," boomed the man with a stag crest. Merlin recognized the thick accent as being the same as the youth's who had tried to kill him of the day before. "Such an _honour_ it is."

"The honour is mine, Captain Baldwin Silverblood."

Merlin's chest tightened. _Silverblood?_ The werewolf hunters? Was Arthur _mad?_

Baldwin smiled, a handsome but untrustworthy expression. "I see your reputation precedes you. We have come far – I know now that our destination is worth it."

Merlin blocked out the usual hollow greetings and flattering that always came with visitors, and scanned each of the men and women dismounting from winded horses, three lowering their black hoods and scanning the courtyard with varying degrees of interest. They all had similar physical traits, as though they were related in some way, but one dark-cloaked man caught Merlin's eye quickly. He had white-blonde hair that hung to his shoulders, and a crossbow was slung on his back while a curved sword was strapped to his hip.

As though feeling the warlock's eyes on him, the blonde man turned to face him. Merlin felt a tremor in his spine as the man smiled lightly, and for some reason, he was reminded of a snake.

_That's him_, the servant thought. _That's the other man who tried to kill me in Gregory's Grove – with the crossbow, only he shot the assassin instead. I'm sure of it_. He felt his lip curl unbidden, and as though the would-be killer saw it, he grinned all the wider before finally turning to bow to the king, deep and sweeping. _Arthur _must_ be crazy_.

_Crazy...or desperate?_

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Arthur was as taunt as a lute string as he sat with his "guests" in the dining hall. He tried to make good conversation as Baldwin ate and drank his fill, the captain often waving over servants to bring forth more watered wine or pork sausages, feeling right at home. His left-hand man, called Asmodius, did the opposite: he drank a little, ate less and spoke not at all. It was pretty much the same for the rest of the Silverblood company. There were only about ten present, but Baldwin had assured the king that there over twenty more waiting in the forest, left to watch the camp and not overwhelm his majesty's court. Those that were here seemed infinitely curious, if not disgusted, by the grand, wealthy city, and they stared at the stained glass windows and granite statues with barely suppressed awe.

_Where have these people been all their lives?_ Arthur wondered to himself. _In villages? Out in the woods? It's like they've never seen a glass window before_.

It was by pure fortune that word of the Silverbloods' location reached his ear at all. There had been rumours slithering between villages about an odd party travelling through, and the day before, Arthur had sent men out to investigate, with an invitation just in case. The werewolf hunters had camped a day's ride away from Camelot, a span that would put anyone on their guard...

Arthur enquired where Baldwin's Silverbloods came from, as he and they all had strange, unfamiliar accents and names, but the man simply chuckled and ate a strawberry, saying, "Oh, here and there, from across the seas and over the mountains. We're family. That's all that matters." Though slightly curious, the king let the matter fade.

For a while, Arthur watched Merlin shift uncomfortably near the shadows of a pillar, a pitcher in hand and a shifty, suspicious look in his eye. He came forward when called, but as soon as his service was done, he fell back again to keep everyone at the table in view. He only seemed at ease when a knight of Camelot spoke to him, or another servant or a cook. It was as though he was expecting one of the Silverbloods to pull a dagger from his sleeve and hurtle it at him, but Arthur didn't blame him – he was waiting for the same thing. Whether anyone was foolish or not enough to attempt an assassination in the middle of the citadel, where it would be near impossible to escape unscathed, did not do anything to calm his own nerves. These people had already attempted to kill him and his servant, and he wasn't ready to forgive them anytime soon.

Why were they here, then, and not locked up in the city's deepest dungeons? It was because Arthur felt that an alliance was necessary. There was a turned werewolf raging through the near countryside, unchecked and immeasurably dangerous, and the king needed experts to get rid of it...and experts to cure him and Merlin before it was too late.

"So, you claim that you and your family are...gifted, Captain Baldwin," Arthur said as he cleared his throat. "I'm curious as to know what you mean."

The Silverblood leader smiled, flashing more than one silver-capped tooth. "You may call it sorcery, but we know it to be a gift from the Archons," he said proudly. He leaned closer to the king, as though sharing a great secret. "We have what most know as the Eye."

"...The Eye."

"Aye, the Eye." The man grinned wider at his word choice. "We can See things that many can't, such as a curse or even magical wards. Have you ever been near enough to a person to..._feel_ their anger, your majesty?" As Arthur nodded, Asmodius cleared his throat, as if to interrupt, but Baldwin ignored him. "Well, we can _See_ that anger, shrouding them like an aura. Emotions aren't always strong, and so we mostly discard them – we focus mainly on magic."

Arthur's jaw twitched as he scanned casually for eavesdroppers. Then, "So you can See..."

"The werewolf fighting to break free within you and your...servant? Yes."

The king didn't like that. He placed his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his hand, trying to keep an impassive face. Then he realized that Baldwin could probably See his—

"Anxiety, distress, _fear_. Yes, I can See it all, sire. Forgive me, but your emotions run strong. That is not such a bad thing, you know."

A flash of irritation blossomed, but as Baldwin's smile deepened, Arthur reined in his feelings like he would a rogue horse. It proved difficult.

"But you are fortunate in one thing, your majesty," the leader added. "Most of the men and women in my company are not fully Silverbloods: their families include many mundanes, and so our once pure lines are now diluted – I don't mean to sound impudent, just straight forward. For this, their Eye isn't as powerful or focused as one's such as I."

"You're a 'pure' Silverblood, then."

"Yes, your highness. Pure from the time of my ancestors."

_The inbreeding they must have gone through_, Arthur thought, forcing back a smirk. Then he tried not to think of the irony.

Baldwin seemed to have lost interest in the king and was looking down the table, past his companions and at the knights of Camelot. Then he noticed Merlin, and certainly Saw his discomfort.

"Your servant. Not a very calm fellow, is he?"

Arthur was alarmed to hear the slight burr of disgust in the captain's words.

"He's...usually quite relaxed, actually. But I think having those who tried to kill him and his master so near his person is putting him...a bit on edge." Arthur didn't want to be overly obvious with his prodding, but he was having difficulty restraining himself from demanding why the Silverbloods attempted assassinations so quickly if there was indeed a chance that the werewolf curse could be lifted.

"Ah. That." Baldwin put down his goblet and swallowed. "You must understand, sire, that our informants only knew that that boy over there was a servant and therefore of no importance, while _you_—" he continued before Arthur could intervene in protest, "—were undetermined. Now that we know who and what you are, we are most ashamed and humbly ask, by the great Archons Larentia and Nocturn, for your forgiveness."

Arthur thought it peculiar that such a sincere-sounding apology was coming halfway through a meal rather than being given as they met in the courtyard, and that it was asked by Archons and not gods as per usual.

_Wait...Nocturn...That was the being the Blackhand cult worshipped, and slaughtered so many for._

Baldwin was waiting expectantly, and Arthur inclined his head. "I appreciate your...consideration. But you still attacked royalty, and that in itself is an unforgiving, punishable crime. What say you to that?" The king didn't need the Eye to recognize the disquiet Baldwin was now burdened with, and he drilled the Silverblood leader mercilessly with his gaze until the man looked away.

"It is indeed unforgivable. Surely, though, sire, we can come to some sort of understanding—?"

"Understanding? How about a deal?"

"A deal, my lord?"

Arthur nodded curtly at Merlin as he caught the servant's eye, and he came over as to refill the king's goblet. Really, Merlin was going to listen in on Arthur's proposition to Baldwin, and see if he approved. Though he didn't always listen to his manservant's council, bedazzling words of wisdom springing from Merlin's mouth, strangely enough, were not uncommon.

"Yes, Captain Baldwin. A deal. It is known that your family discovered a cure for the curse of the werewolf decades ago, but the written form was stolen, correct?"

"Aye, sire. And that's all. It was stolen, and therefore remains lost—"

"Lost? No, it's not lost. You know it yourself."

A concoction of emotions roiled in the man's eyes before a film of indifference shrouded them all, but Arthur managed to detect them. He had been king for a couple of years, and he had spent several more as crowned prince. By now, he could read almost any man's features if they were displayed for but a moment. This ability soothed the ruffles that rose when he thought about Baldwin's skill with the Eye, and gave him strength and encouragement.

Baldwin was running a finger around the outer rim of his goblet, a silver ring capped with a ruby gleaming on his thumb. He waved aside Merlin's proffer of more watered wine absentmindedly, and then tried to return the king's expression.

"It is not a sure thing, but we may have a...cure."

"Good. Then you may give it to me and my servant, and all shall be forgiven."

"You misunderstand, your majesty. I—we—don't know if it _works_. There had been promising signs, but the test subjects back then always had a sudden vicious burst that threatened us all, and we had no choice but to kill them before the cure set in...When I say 'we,' I mean my predecessors. I wasn't born when our order dematerialized, but I had received tales from by parents before they died. The cure is but a theory, one that had no subjects to..._fine tune_ on."

"Well, I'm afraid that there is little else to be done," Arthur said. "Are you willing to attempt to cure me and my servant in exchange for full pardon?"

Baldwin's face remained unreadable. "I am, sire."

"Good. A wise choice, considering the rest of your kin." Arthur nodded at Merlin, who stepped away from behind the king's throne and resumed his position further down the table, near the pillar. The servant was shaking his head, but Arthur ignored him. _He's just scared, is all_, the king thought. _He will understand once he knows that a werewolf no longer rages within him, waiting to burst forth like a river from a dam. It's only a matter of time, after all_.

* * *

**Indeed.**

"**Betray us, and I will _fong_ you, until your insides are out, your outsides are in. Your entrails will become your ex-trails. I will w-rip... all the p-_pain,_ lots of _pain!_" ~ Wat (A Knight's Tale)**


	11. Desperate Measures

~11~ Desperate Measures

"We are ready, captain."

Baldwin stood over the operations with a hidden sense of pride as his kin worked hard to prepare for the evening. They were just completing when the leader came, and Adam, a Silverblood of notable ranking due to his bravery, confirmed their concluding preparations.

"Most admirable, Adam," Baldwin said, emotionless in appearance only. "And the Heart?"

"The priest, Benjamin, has it, sir."

"Very good. We must take all precautions if we're going to make this look...right."

"Sir." Tiberius, the second lieutenant, approached. He rested his strung longbow on his boot. "If I may be so bold as to speak my mind, captain."

Baldwin said nothing, but held out an open hand.

"Why is it you've made a deal with the Pendragon? It was Argus Vane and the Blackhands who have made this mess. Shouldn't they be responsible?"

"Yes, they are, and they will soon answer for it. But I would prefer to keep them – or rather, what's left of them – a secret, just in case. I hope Argus' brother will keep his mouth shut for a while longer. In order for this to work, Arthur _Pendragon,_" he spat out the name, "needs to see what he has assumed, and we will be able to keep the element of surprise. After all, we were the ones who attempted to kill the king and his sorcerer servant, and so we must pay for it, don't you think, lieutenant?" Baldwin became suddenly very interested in the cages as they were placed on patches of dirt with circles drawn around them. The circles meant nothing, and were there simply for appearance. "I think this alien land has corrupted the gifted blood in those of the Blackhand order, don't you? These infidel barbarians are superstitious, foolhardy, weak, and they've diluted our perfect lines. I have a mind to simply leave Rowan here and return to Italia. At least there, no more werewolves prowl, and it isn't so _cold_."

The others looked shocked at such a suggestion, but Baldwin merely gave a condescending smile.

"His majesty comes," voiced Asmodius from somewhere just behind the captain.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

"I don't trust them," Merlin grumbled, casting furtive glances at the marching Silverbloods. They had gleaming blades at their hips that were slightly off-colour to the usual metal of Camelot's weapons, as though made of a different matter entirely.

Arthur said nothing, despite his immense desire to do so. Merlin had claimed his mistrust of others in the past, and on many an occasion, he was right about his suspicions.

The servant seemed to be reading Arthur's thoughts, and glared accusingly at him. "You don't either. Why are we doing this?"

Sighing, the king glanced over his shoulder, then said, "There's a reason why there are no soldiers, only my knights, with us, Merlin...I'm sure you've noticed _that_." He found himself, strangely enough, unable to meet the fire in his servant's eye. Was it because he felt guilty? "If word gets out that I – that_ both_ of us – are werewolves, Camelot will fall into utter chaos. The longer we wait to cure ourselves, or at least try, the bigger the chance of such a thing happening. We can trust only the knights to say nothing."

"That is why rumours were sent out saying that we're hunting for the loose werewolf."

"Exactly."

"But what about their...beliefs? They speak of Archons like a priest would a saint. And they follow Nocturn just like the Blackhands!"

Again, Arthur mulled over his words before speaking them. He knew that Archons were the sentinels of a past age, great beings of god-like power but were not gods. Few believed them to be real, but the Silverbloods certainly did.

"Who they ask for divine aid is not our concern," he finally replied. "It matters little. The knights are here if anything goes wrong this evening, so..." He swung his arms out to the sides before letting them fall back, giving a light shrug.

Merlin didn't look appeased, and in fact looked ready to attack anything that may seem dangerous. It was a stance that came up rarely, but Arthur recognized it as one that meant the servant was ready for anything and everything. He shook his head.

"Just relax, will you?" He punched Merlin in the arm, but received minimal reaction for his troubles.

* * *

"A _cage?_ Now wait a moment."

"Shut it, Merlin," Arthur hissed, nudging his servant inconspicuously. "I don't like it anymore than you do, but if things get out of hand, I would rather not tear my knights to shreds once I've lost control."

Merlin grumbled, but held his tongue and allowed himself to be led to one of the two large cages set in the clearing. All four walls and the roof were of flat, latticed bars. Around both cages were single circles scratched into the ground, which had been cleared of grass and debris, leaving dark dirt. Odd symbols and glyphs were sketched into the earth, which Merlin and Arthur both tried to decipher before they were guided into the cages. Set at regular intervals around each circle were lit candles, which drove away the deepening dusk and filled the air with a strange scent. More darkness was banished by the many torches held by the Silverbloods and cautious knights that accompanied them. In the darkness of the trees, the mutterings of restless horses could be heard among the obnoxious symphony of rowdy crickets.

Each cage door squeaked closed and shut with an ominous _boom_, making a much louder sound than it should have – or perhaps it was just Arthur's heightened senses. Both he and Merlin looked longingly out to freedom, dreading the long, unpredictable night that lay before them like a dark road. A few knights tried to walk up to them to speak privately, but the Silverbloods, whose company had expanded to over thirty, prevented them from entering the circle etched into the dirt. They wouldn't explain why. The knights had to content themselves with a louder, impersonal conversation.

Eventually, a Silverblood, dressed in a strange, animal skin attire, came and placed a pedestal between the two circles, a space that was about two feet wide. Then the man retreated, and Baldwin stepped forward, something cupped in his hand.

"Your majesty, Merlin, this is what our predecessors theorized could control the curse of the werewolf. It is a little thing, and there is even littler knowledge known about it, but it is our best bet in saving your lives." Baldwin opened his hands, revealing a small gleaming lump of silver ore.

Merlin frowned at it. "A rock?"

"Not just any rock," the Silverblood leader explained, his chest filling with pride. "This was once mixed with the sword that killed the first werewolf over two thousand years ago. The blade, blessed by the great Archon Nocturn himself, had long since been melted down and the silver harvested, for it broke after it slew the monster. Its owner, called Baldwin—" he smiled at the thought of having such a brave man as his namesake, "—died soon afterwards, but he had wanted the blade reforged to pass on to his descendants. However, near ten decades ago, the current owner of the sword and the last true leader of the our kind, Rowan Silverblood, was slain by a werewolf just as he thrust the blade through its heart. He died as it did, but again, the sword was broken. Here are the salvaged remains, kept safe in my family for a century." Baldwin placed the misshapen lump on the pedestal between the two cages holding the king and Merlin. As they both stared dubiously at it, Arthur couldn't help but wonder.

_How can metal, especially one such as silver, be re-salvaged so many times after being tampered into a __blade?_ he thought. _I wish Gwenevere was here. Her father was a blacksmith, so she would have some knowledge about this sort of thing. What if Baldwin is lying?_ He had forbidden his queen to come, for her own safety, despite her protests.

"So what is it supposed to..._do_, exactly?" Merlin asked.

Baldwin ignored him, but then Arthur asked the same question, albeit in a more impatient manner.

"We don't know. After the fall of Rowan, we knew that we had to redouble our efforts to kill all the werewolves, or at least cure them, for there was the chance of them rising even though we had nearly pushed them to extinction by that time. This, because it is silver, seemed to have an affect on those infected." The man gazed at the ore lovingly. "Though fatal to the beasts themselves, it almost seems like a repellant of the disease. Whenever a person is about to turn, they can hold on to humanity if this is near. We suppose that a great deal is owed to the victim's willpower and how infected they had become. Again, this is all theory – there was no true opportunity to discover if it was truly doing anything before the werewolves were thought all extinguished. As I said before, any tests done failed because the subject grew too dangerous before we could complete our task."

"Hence the cages now."

"Hence the cages now," Baldwin nodded in confirmation.

Arthur stared at the rock a few more moments. "So, that's it?"

Baldwin had begun to turn away. He faced the king and shrugged. "That's it. Now we wait. If you don't turn tonight, then we'll try tomorrow." He started to walk away again.

"And if it doesn't work...?" Merlin waited expectantly, and seemed surprised when the Silverblood answered.

"Then pray that the cages will hold you. For we have little choice in action if either of you were to escape."

Both the king and the servant glanced at each other through the bars, their anxiety barely suppressed, then settled down to wait.

* * *

***Tries to create an air of suspense – fails* **

**;)**

******"It's amazing what a man will do to forestall his final judgement." ~ Jack Sparrow (Pirates of the Caribbean)**


	12. Tooth of the Wolf

~12~ Tooth of the Wolf

Dusk had passed and the swollen moon rose over the pines to outshine the stars. Arthur stared heavenward for nearly an hour, ignoring the rest of the world around him, and then Merlin coughed and he was startled out of his trance. He looked guiltily towards his manservant, trapped in the other cage, realizing that he would be just as disturbed as the king and may want someone to talk to.

Arthur chewed his lip and turned his head away. Why should he even care?

_I don't_, he said inwardly. _I don't care. Merlin should be capable of holding his own, and if not, tough beans. That's his problem, not mine_..._Then why do I feel so awful?_

Merlin had curled up in a far corner, arms wrapped about his legs and his head resting back against the bars. There was a look of sadness on his shadowed features that deepened the guilt Arthur felt for neglecting him. The king sighed, then crawled from his own crouched position towards the corner nearest the servant and whispered softly to him.

"Hey. _Psst_, hey, Merlin. Do you want to talk?"

Merlin looked at him finally, then nodded and also moved to the closer corner.

"How are you feeling?"

"...Spectacular."

Arthur chuckled, and Merlin smiled. For a moment, they watched the groups of patrolling Silverbloods and conversing knights silently, envying their freedom and unburdened thoughts – not quite so unburdened, actually, for their king was on the brink of destruction, but at least they didn't have to feel what it was like to become a werewolf.

Merlin sighed. "It's already been a long night."

"Yeah." Arthur harrumphed in agreement. "And it will be for nothing if we don't even change."

"I think we will, considering what happened yesterday." The servant seemed to shudder at awful memories. Arthur certainly did.

After that, the conversation turned to more pleasant matters. Merlin spoke of growing up in Ealdor, and though Arthur had already heard a few tales, the servant heartily recounted them in more detail. Arthur felt a fresh coil of guilt unravel when he mentioned Will, his childhood friend. Merlin told him of the caves and the river near the small village, and how he had once saved Will from drowning.

Arthur, in turn, gave his own stories about living in Camelot. Uther, his father, had been very protective at first, keeping him inside to train and only letting him out when he had a guard. His best friend had been his mentor, a man called Tarnac, who had died saving the young prince from raiders.

"I remember him giving me his sword," the king voiced gruffly, staring off into nothing. "He told me...to be a good king, better than my father, better than the world had ever seen." He shook his head. "At the time, I thought he was delirious, from the affects of dying. I—" A brief pause. "Strange, I've never told anyone that before..." Trailing off, he refused to meet his servant's gaze, suddenly feeling awkward. Merlin, for his part, let him mull over his thoughts in peace.

As the night wore on slower than a northbound glacier, they spoke less between themselves and concentrated on not dozing off. They watched their guard of knights and Silverbloods with limited interest. Restless, Arthur glanced over his shoulder at his servant, only able to see him by his profile. He struck up another story for him, and he listened avidly, laughing, wincing, grinning and frowning where appropriate but keeping his own words to himself.

"Sir Pelinor was a good knight. If fact, you might remember him. He..." Arthur faded as he noticed that Merlin was no longer listening. The servant's posture was relaxed, his breathing even and slow. Arthur smiled briefly and let him sleep.

The moon reached its zenith and then began to fall, but the king's anxious anticipation did not fall with it. It got worse as another hour dragged on and everything that made a sound put him on edge. When Merlin twitched, acting out his unfathomed dreams, Arthur tensed and half expected the servant to start sprouting hair. An inquisitive owl swooped low overhead, and the king reached for a sword that wasn't there. He came close to panic when an ache spread across his shoulders and backside, but when he moved, he realized that he had been just sitting still in one place for too long. Not for the first time, he wished that Merlin had stayed awake, but force himself not to rouse him.

Just as he thought this, the servant flinched violently. Arthur, too, flinched, then relaxed when he realized that it was probably another dream reflex. But when Merlin cringed again, and grunted as though in pain, the king figured that this was probably no ordinary dream, nor any kind of nightmare.

As if thinking the same thing, a Silverblood, dressed in strange garb consisting of a headdress of stag antlers and clothes of buckskin, emerged from the shadows and started tapping at a small drum. The mesmerizing rhythm spread to other drummers, and deeper instruments pounded intriguingly through the night.

"What are you doing?" Arthur demanded of them, getting to his feet. His muscles pulled in protest from being held still, but he ignored them and focused on his harried servant. "Merlin? Merlin, are you okay? Wake up! _Merlin!_"

The knights shoved to the fore of the swelling crowd of beating Silverbloods, and joined in their efforts to wake the youth without approaching the cage. But it was not necessary – Merlin was already awake, and realizing that he was in great pain.

"Arthur," he croaked, his terrified eyes meeting the king's. "Help me." A brutal snap like shattering bone interrupted him; he clutched at his chest and screamed, writhing in agony. Arthur's pleas fell on deaf ears as the servant fell onto his side, unable to escape the torment. Tears streamed from his eyes as his body began to mutate.

Arthur watched with fascinated horror as Merlin's clenched hands expanded to almost twice their size and grew terrible long claws. His arms bulged with muscle and his back twisted painfully as it was pulled to accommodate for extra height. His feet stretched, the heel becoming a second joint and giving his legs the structure of a wolf's.

The king wanted to look away, and he tried, but he couldn't for long. He felt his gaze being dragged unwillingly to watch his servant suffer through the hellish torture. Already, Merlin was losing his mind from the pain and the change. His claws tore at his clothes, and with it, his very skin. As the patches of flesh were ripped away, glossy fur of ebony was exposed. His head elongated, and his mouth became a wolfish, snapping maw. His ears grew long and pointed and sat closer to the top of his skull. His neck became thick and muscular, and he choked before yanking the red neckerchief from his throat and throwing it away with a snarl.

Before he could fully comprehend it, Arthur was staring at a monster that was once the man he knew most in the world, now over eight feet tall, swollen with graceful muscle, and howling to the moon like a wolf, but savage and feral. Merlin was gone.

And what remained was quickly discovering that it was trapped, and that it didn't like it.

"YOU _FOOL!_" Arthur roared, shaking the bars of his own cage uselessly and glaring fire at Baldwin, who stood calmly but a pace away from the circle around the werewolf's prison. "You _knew_ that lump of _rock_ wasn't going to work! You _knew_ this!"

Baldwin ignored the king, and instead ordered his Silverbloods, over the racket the exploring monster was beginning to create, to keep their weapons trained on the cage. Arthur nearly bellowed a counter-order to forbid anyone from harming the thing that still had a bit of Merlin somewhere within, but before he could, Baldwin began to chant, low and methodical, and too softly for the king to hear.

_What rubbish is he playing now?_ Arthur thought, but was shocked to see the werewolf stop snarling and pacing about the cage, and instead focus wolfish eyes on the Silverblood, as though it were listening. Whatever the man was speaking, Arthur didn't understand, and could only assume that it was some kind of spell that rendered the monster helpless. _No, not a monster. It's_—he's—_Merlin, and he'll come back_. _I know it._

_I know it._

Baldwin continued his arcane chant, lifting his arms and lowering them in a smooth, patternless way that seemed to hypnotize the beast. It was staring straight at the Silverblood, not entirely silent, for its breathing was loud with a slight burr, as though ready to growl at any moment. Though he was sceptical, Arthur couldn't help but hope that perhaps Baldwin was magicking Merlin's mind, if not body as well, back to the forefront.

_If we can accomplish that, then there's hope yet._

_...Why haven't _I_ changed yet?_

It was not a desirable experience, as he had witnessed from his servant, but if anything, he, Arthur, should have changed first. Merlin may have been contaminated a few moments beforehand, but the king would have gotten a lot more venom from the wound caused by the werewolf a week ago.

_Perhaps it doesn't matter_, he reasoned. _Perhaps it was because Merlin was sleeping and his body was relaxed – the beast took over then_. All of a sudden, he got a strange feeling that he was going to spend several restless nights.

The beast that had stolen Merlin's body grumbled deep in its chest, and its muscles tensed as if ready to spring. Baldwin chanted a little louder, making odd signs with his hands and wrists along with his arms. Once in a while, Arthur recognized the names 'Larentia' and 'Nocturn,' the two Archons that the Silverbloods seemed to revere the most. Archons, he recalled again, were scantily-known beings that had come before the era of the Old Religion, in the time known as the Ancient Kingdom. Dangerous, unpredictable, too unfamiliar for Arthur to be comfortable with. The Silverblood Order must be old indeed for them to worship them still.

The king stepped as close as he could in his own prison towards the other cage. He cleared his throat. "Merlin?" There was no reaction. He tried louder. "_Merlin_."

He jumped as the beast's head swung towards him and drilled him with cruel eyes, dark in the shadows. Ivory teeth gleamed as it gave him an eerie imitation of a smile, stringy saliva dripping from its open maw. Arthur swallowed, but did not look away.

_Merlin is in there. I know it. He just needs to be reminded of it._

"Can you understand me, Merlin?"

When Arthur spoke his name one last time, the drums stopped and Baldwin ceased his chanting. He dropped into a crouch, ending his preordained ritual. On cue, the werewolf tore its ravenous gaze from the king and howled again, louder and more demonic than any natural wolf. And then it stepped forward, picked up one end of the cage, not attached to the ground for some reason, and threw it back as though it were not but a bail of straw being tossed over its shoulder.

It was free.

* * *

**Dun dun duuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuun. **

**(The longer the 'dun,' the worse the situation.)**

"**It's never too late to dig graves. You never know when you'll need a fresh one..." ~ Top Hat (Van Helsing)**


	13. Mark them Deep

**So, Merlin's a werewolf now...rawr...**

* * *

~13~ Mark them Deep

The cage clashed as it hit the ground several paces behind the liberated werewolf, and the beast howled in triumph as people scurried to their positions around it, all aiming deadly weapons.

"Hold steady!" Baldwin bellowed, holding up his own sword. "Target the heart! Don't let it escape!"

"No!" Arthur screamed even as an arrow shot from a longbow pierced the monster that was once Merlin in the shoulder. The werewolf snarled and clutched at the quarrel, then plucked it out as though it were not but a splinter. It gazed at it intelligently, and then threw it away in a rage, spittle flying from its jaws at it roared at the offending archer.

"Don't hurt him!" Arthur yelled, struggling to make himself heard. The werewolf noticed him, in any case, and turned towards him, sniffing. The king froze, pale, when the beast's ebony muzzle twitched and then bunched up as it growled. Arthur had but a moment to throw himself to the opposite side of his cage before the werewolf lunged at him, knocking the structure back and lifting one edge a whole two feet before the whole thing fell back down with a loud, rattling _clang!_

_What were they thinking?_ The king raged inwardly as he scrambled back to his feet. _They didn't attach the cages to the_ ground? _Idiots!_

"Bolas!"

With Baldwin's barked order, ropes with balls at the end whirled through the air from every direction. One set lassoed the werewolf's right arm while others looped around its shoulders and legs. It howled in frustration and tore at the bonds, destroying many with unsettling ease.

There was an order to fire. Arthur watched helplessly as his oldest friend-turned-beast was peppered with arrows. It howled, but it did not fall. Its tough hide prevented the bolts from dealing any damage, but they still made it mad.

"Defend yourself!"

A Silverblood ducked beneath a kite shield as the werewolf pounced and slashed at her. Its finger-length claws screeched like banshees across the metal, and sparks danced for a moment through the night. Gwaine jabbed at the beast from behind, distracting it and allowing the red-haired Silverblood to retreat. But the werewolf lunged for her again, and Gwaine, in a bout of courage, charged straight at the beast, shield up. He collided with it hard enough to make it stagger, and it growled in fury as it abandoned its pursuit of the Silverblood, who fled for the cover of the ranks. Gwaine began to retreat as well, only for the werewolf to follow, one arm up and ready for a crippling swing.

"Benjamin!" Baldwin suddenly roared. "By Larentia and Nocturn!" He began to chant again. Just as before, the werewolf's attention immediately fell on the captain, ears turned towards him, sniffing as though curious. It even ignored its wounds as it stared like a magpie would at a gleaming bauble. Behind it, two knights and two Silverbloods were sneaking up with a wiry net held among them. Then there was a slight hesitation in Baldwin's chanting, as though he had been distracted, and the werewolf whirled around like it knew that they were there the whole time.

The four net-wielders threw their snare, but it was clumsy and hasty, and one of the Silverbloods let go too late, resulting in a mess that let the werewolf lunge, jaws gaped, unhindered. The men fled, drawing weapons as they did so and keeping an eye over their shoulders.

Arthur yelled something unintelligible as one of his knights threw himself between the retreating men and the werewolf, swinging his sword defensively. The beast rose above the warrior and glared down at him, a giant even to Percival, who was the knight standing before him. Percival had to lift his shield as the monster swung a clawed arm, intent on disemboweling the puny human before it. The shield took the blow, but Percival was left staggering to his right, his face contorted with pain and shock. Before the beast could strike again, Elyan rushed up from behind and stabbed its flank, but like the arrows, his weapon failed to pierce the hide effectively. The werewolf still snarled in irritation, and spun around before batting Elyan aside like a cat with a yarn ball, effortlessly and mercilessly.

Other men and women took courage from the knights, however, and moved in to circle the monster and keep its focus away from any single one of them. It growled warningly and never let one quarter of itself remain unguarded for more than a second. Leon jabbed it with a spear to distract it as a Silverblood swung a mace its side. The beast snarled and faced the Silverblood, not giving the man a chance to retreat before slashing his throat out with one single swipe of its lethal claws. It was the first death.

The men and women withdrew from the attack, reluctant to get closer to those claws. The werewolf crouched now, on all fours but with one arm up in preparation. It focused hard eyes on the knights and Silverbloods, readying itself to pounce. And then a werewolf howled in the distance.

Merlin's beast perked, ears up and head cocked. Its black nose sniffed the air in the direction from whence the howl emerged, deep in the trees, as though it had entirely forgotten the humans surrounding it. It took a curious step towards the forest, and the men and women before it scrambled back fearfully, only to hastily fix the line and uphold weapons in defence. The werewolf ignored them and took another step, sniffing. Suddenly, a blonde-haired Silverblood rushed it from behind, a gleaming silver dagger in hand.

Several things happened at once. Gwaine bolted forward and intercepted the Silverblood, who was Asmodius, Baldwin's lieutenant. He shouldered him and sent him sprawling. The werewolf whirled around, claws slashing. Gwaine took the blow across his abdomen, and there was no air in his lungs to scream as he was knocked flying through the air, helpless, as though he were not but a leaf in the breeze.

Arthur watched in shock as the knight slammed against the cage still holding him imprisoned, sending a teeth-gritting clang through the air. As Gwaine slumped lifelessly to the ground, Arthur scrambled towards him and reached through the bars to touch him, vaguely hearing a woman shrieking in despair. He tried shaking Gwaine to revive him, then checked his pulse. The knight was alive, but unconscious. Merlin had nearly killed him.

It hit Arthur then the danger his servant, his best friend, now posed. If he wasn't stopped, and soon, there will be hell to pay, and when Merlin realizes what he had done, it will tear him apart. But how does one stop a werewolf?

The only solution was out of the question. Or was it?

What choice had they?

The line broke after Gwaine was felled, and now the werewolf had open access to the trees. It howled once more to the sky, and then charged on all fours to be swallowed by darkness in moments. There was an incoherent cry, and Asmodius rode after the beast on a white stallion, wielding his gleaming silver dagger high.

"Asmodius, no!" Baldwin roared, but the man was already gone, the ivory tail of his steed soon out of reach of the blazing torches. No one pursued him.

Then all was silent. Even the crickets had fallen still to witness the spectacle, but after several tense breaths, they continued their raucous, indifferent racket.

Arthur was seething. He remained crouched near where Gwaine lay unconscious, him inside and the knight outside the cage. A whole storm of fury raged inside his head, feeling like it was going to burst forth at any moment. He nearly spewed his thoughts but instead, he swallowed his anger and said, in the calmest way possible, "Let me out."

A Silverblood nearby heard him, Arthur could tell, but ignored him.

"Let me out," he said louder, more commanding. Now the Silverblood shifted uncomfortably, unsure of what to do.

"Release him," ordered Baldwin, whose back was turned from the king, watching the darkness between the trees, where his second in command had vanished. Arthur was surprised that the leader had heard him.

"What if he changes?" the standby Silverblood protested. He cringed as his commander turned and glared daggers at him, and then strode towards him, thunder faced.

"I said, _release him_," Baldwin growled, and gave the man a shove.

A key was hastily shoved into the lock, and seconds later, the door swung open and Arthur emerged. Many backed away, wary of the king, but Baldwin raised his voice. "He will not turn tonight. His body will not permit it, for it is not restful. Calm yourselves."

The king was burning with a thousand questions, but he retained them and crouched to inspect Gwaine. He was vaguely surprised to see a woman, a Silverblood, already kneeling by the knight and looking him over. Then he recognized her flaming red hair and realized that it was the woman Gwaine had covered, and therefore rescued, from the werewolf.

"How is he?" Arthur asked gruffly, but the woman only shook her head.

Gwaine was wearing a shirt of mail, and so the degree of the injury was undetermined. However, blood seeped through the metal links, darkening his front a deep red. More was oozing gently from the wound in the knight's head where he had hit the cage. Arthur pulled off his jacket and bundled it before placing it on the ground. He then eased him into a lying-down position, using the jacket as a pillow.

"I need a physician," he said through his teeth. "..._Now!_"

A Silverblood came forward, a satchel already falling from his shoulder and opening to reveal unrecognizable herbs and salves. Arthur stood, leaving the red-haired woman and the healer with the knight, to inspect the rest of his men. The Silverblood who was wounded in the throat was deemed dead, as expected, but Elyan and Percival, both having being hit, were fine, just shaken.

"That was Merlin," Elyan was saying, shaking his head in disbelief. "I mean, that was..._Merlin_."

Arthur licked his dry lips as he glowered into the darkness of the trees, just as Baldwin had done. He realized how parched he was, and tried to remember the last time he'd had a drink. He couldn't.

"He'll be all right, son," said Baldwin from behind the king. Arthur turned, glaring.

"Your promises and reassurances are becoming ever more untrustworthy, _captain_," he growled. "You _knew_ that silver _rock_ wasn't going to work. You _knew_ that the cage wasn't properly constructed." His gaze would have made the gods tremble. "There will be serious repercussions for this. Mark my words, captain. Mark them deep."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Argus Vane paced restlessly in the circular chamber, the second to top floor of the ruined outpost's tower.

"The Silverbloods are here?" he hissed angrily to himself. "They weren't supposed to come! Not yet! They'll ruin everything."

Claudius, the soothsayer, tried to keep his face devoid of expression, but the fear of having to be the messenger made it a trying task. When he delivered the knowledge that King Arthur had been marked by the beast because of the quick thinking of Remus, the former Keeper of the Heart, it was something to be proud of. But this...

"And they have already made an attempt to kill both the servant and the king," said the soothsayer cautiously. "Their attempts failed only because of Rowan."

Argus paused, frowning. "Rowan?"

The other Blackhand nodded. "When the cursed servant heard Rowan's howl, he ran after it, as is their nature."

"But the Silver Heart," said the cult leader. "It should have kept the beast in place. Don't tell me it becomes immune to the Heart when it hears the call of its kin."

Now Claudius had something to smile about. "It is because the Silverbloods placed their Keeper back into the trees to keep him hidden. Our spies captured him." He left the unspoken consequence hanging, and Argus had to rein in a gleeful cheer.

_That means we once more have possession of the Silver Heart_, he thought excitedly, pleased that he managed to keep his outward dignity intact.

"And what of Rowan?" he asked, and was again bombarded with relief as Claudius kept his smile.

"Our family is tracking him even as we speak. By now, the servant would have returned to human form, but that matters little. Rowan will soon be back in our grasps."

Argus nodded and turned to the window, which looked out into the dark forest. Not much of a view, but it gave him an excuse to hold his silence until he disentangled his roiling thoughts.

"How many Silverbloods escaped arrest?" he said.

"Six, master. Including their priest—thanks to us—and their best assassin. They are now merely refugees."

"And we can offer them sanctuary," the cult master finished, nodding. "This we can work to our advantage. Once they hear my ingenious plan, they will cut Baldwin loose."

"Only six, master?" asked Claudius, confused. Argus snorted.

"What have you done in a past life that would condemn you to another lifetime of stupidity?" he wondered aloud. His forehead creased. "With the promise of glory once more, Baldwin's company will trickle towards us."

"Our glory will be for not if Camelot no longer trusts the Silverblood name," Claudius replied flatly.

"We will _make_ them trust us," Argus snapped. "Them, and all of Albion. Once they see our powers over werewolves, they will flock to us like sheep. Now, leave me. I wish to rest tonight."

* * *

"**I'm sorry if I've caused you any pain. Remember me as I was." ~ King Baldwin IV (Kingdom of Heaven)**


	14. Mercy Killing

**Oops. I actually forgot about this story -_- **

**My bad. Here's the update finally :)**

* * *

~14~ Mercy Killing

He noticed three things when he opened his eyes: first, that he was naked. Second, that he was coated in gore that was not his own. And third, that he was going to be sick.

Merlin rolled over in his rough cradle of tree roots and vomited, stomach burning, tears streaming down his cheeks. He continued to retch even after his body was empty, noting with alarm that what burst from his mouth was red and black, like blood.

Once he regained control, he sat up, shuddering. Dried fluids cracked across his chest, neck, shoulders, and legs, and he brushed it away as though in a trance, confusion roiling in the forefront of his mind.

_What happened? Where am I?_

He was in a forest, an older one by the looks of the trees and their scraggly beards of moss, sitting in the embrace of ancient roots like a wood elf. It was early morning, and the air was chill. The angled sun shone between the branches from the east, casting shaped rays of light into puddles upon the ground. It was in one of these puddles that the mutilated corpse of a blonde-haired man lay, his chest and stomach torn out, his throat slashed, his eyes still open and frozen in the fear he had experienced before he was slaughtered.

Merlin blanched, looking at the remains of Captain Baldwin's lieutenant, Asmodius, then at the blood and organ pieces spattered across his own body, and realization hit him like a hammer on an anvil.

_Gods, what have I done?_

He nearly puked again, but as there was no more of Asmodius's flesh in his stomach, nothing came up. All he got was pain, but in his shoulder and legs, curiously enough. He curled up in a ball to wait until the torment subsided, but when it didn't, he glanced at the offending points, only to blink in surprise. There was a gash on his thigh and another, with a giant bruise, on his side, but a slice on his shoulder captured his attention. The flesh around that wound was raw-looking and hot to the touch, and oozed yellow pus. He touched it gingerly, only to hiss and withdraw his hand. Fortunately, the bleeding had hastily scabbed itself to a halt, and so he didn't die from blood loss while unconscious.

"_Res__ą__n__ę__sco__._" His irises flashed like twin doubloons, and with a sigh of relief, he watched as the angry wound sealed over and the red skin faded away. He healed his other wounds the same way, glad that none of them were more deep. Anything worse than what he had would be beyond his skill to Heal.

While he was at it, he banished the remaining cuts and bruises left behind after he had tumbled from the smuggler waggon a week ago during the Blackhand raid. After all, why not?

Finally, he nearly stood. At the last moment, he noticed the absence of clothes on his person, and nearly blushed from embarrassment until he also realized that there was no one around to see him.

His knees shivered as though an earthquake was rattling the land, but he managed to stand and make his way to where Asmodius lay prone, his remains a feast for flies and ants. The stench was strong in the warlock's nostrils and he turned away, to see a gleam of ivory beneath the broken branches of a bush. Cautiously approaching, he saw that it was a white horse, equally dead, and equally rotting. It sickened him, but he crawled into the bush and rooted around in the horse's saddlebags. From them, he managed to acquire a clean set of clothes, made for long travels. He pulled them on, tightening the belt more than usual because the attire was too big for his slight frame. Then he took the time to inspect the site more closely.

There were definite signs of struggle, like a bear, or _werewolf_, had torn up the ground in a challenge. Dried blood speckled the leaves and rocks, condensed more in some places than others. There were large claw marks scored into the trunks of surrounding trees. There was also a dagger left discarded in the leaves, almost hidden.

Merlin bent to retrieve the silver blade, and touched its hilt, only to release a short scream and stagger back, holding his hand. Steam gently drifted free of his fingers where he had touched the weapon, and he hastily wiped them on his pants. He heard a snickering brook a bit into the trees and stumbled towards it frantically. At its edge, he jammed his hand into the water and scrubbed it with the other. The pain receded, and when he lifted it from the brook, the flesh looked red and felt slightly tender.

It didn't take much for Merlin to realize what had just happened. Silverbloods were werewolf hunters – they may not have a cure, but they have an extermination method. Asmodius had planned on killing him, and Merlin was sure that it was not a spontaneous decision, especially not on his own part. The warlock had no doubt that Captain Baldwin was deep in the murderous plot, but who could blame him? Merlin had practically killed his son, after all...At least, it was an accident. Baldwin wouldn't care less that it was in self-preservation.

Merlin considered taking the dagger with him to show to Arthur (Arthur, had he turned?), but was wary of touching it again. It must have been the source of the agony in his shoulder, and he had to prove that the Silverbloods were not what they seem, which wasn't very trustworthy in the first place. After careful consternation, he found a few rags in the saddlery and tensely wrapped up the silver blade in several layers, careful not to let the cold metal touch his skin.

When he stood and turned around, he was confronted by a wolf.

The beast was sniffing around the half-eaten corpse of Asmodius, at complete ease with Merlin not four paces away. The servant stared at it, forgetting that doing so was the worst thing one could do when facing a wild animal. The wolf prowled on, moving from the Silverblood to the horse and ignoring him. It snorted the scent from its nose, and only then did it finally look up and acknowledge Merlin's presence. Its emerald eyes inspected the warlock intelligently, as though it had never seen a human before and did not consider him a threat. It padded closer, making Merlin flinch. Pausing, concerned, the wolf's nose twitched as it sniffed, one paw in mid-step. Then it snorted and lowered its head again, following its muzzle away into the trees.

It hadn't been afraid. It was alone, and wolves generally avoided humans if they could, yet...this one hadn't been afraid. Why was that?

Merlin had a suspicion, but that didn't calm his agitation. Of course, it just added to the growing mound of reasons for his agitation, including that he was a werewolf, that his king was a werewolf, that that very same king was in the reaches of werewolf hunters, and that he had eaten human flesh!

His stomach roiled again at the latter thought, even though he had thrown it all up and knew that he hadn't been in his right mind when it happened. The monster that he had turned into had been threatened, and it did what its instincts told it to do. Merlin just wished that he had gained control back before the creature got hungry.

Shaking away the gruesome thoughts, he put the deadly dagger, wrapped in its many layers of cloth, in a leather satchel from the fallen horse's saddlery. Then Merlin took off through the trees, brisk in his cautious treading. Even if he knew the way, he wasn't going to go back to Camelot, not yet, not until he got the answers he needed.

* * *

Kilgharrah seemed to come even faster than usual—when summoned, he could appear from the clouds within moments, but even so, it was as though the urgency in Merlin's commanding voice had drawn the ancient dragon ever swifter.

"There is a problem, warlock," Kilgharrah thundered before he even had the chance to land in the vast clearing Merlin had chosen, "a problem bigger than you can handle. Why can't you ever find issues that are small enough for you to take for yourself?" He folded his massive wings and waited expectantly, regarding him with great golden eyes.

"I would be able to deal with it myself, but Arthur is caught up in it as well." Merlin dropped the satchel and sat down on a boulder, suddenly very tired. "I need your help."

"Of course you do. It seems that while your destiny is to keep the young Pendragon alive and in turn save Albion, _my_ destiny is to help you do so." The great dragon lowered his scaly head until his gaze was level with Merlin's. He inspected the warlock just as the wolf had, and then Merlin was blasted back a step as Kilgharrah snorted. "It is good that you called me. This is indeed something you cannot overcome alone."

"You know?"

"I know. I Heard it in your voice, and I now can See it in your eyes. You have been infested by an ancient magic that rivals the age of even the dragons. I wasn't far from the place where the last werewolf fell, so I am shocked to See you now bearing the curse. How did this happen?"

Though weary, Merlin recounted the events from the past week, throwing in the ambush the king and his knights had set up for the Blackhand cult, which had been wrecking its way across the country with an unfamiliar beast.

"I don't know if Arthur turned last night," Merlin finished. He shrugged. "I hope not. I was nearly killed, and he certainly would have been if he changed. I wish I could remember what happened, how I escaped the Silverbloods..."

"It is well that you did," replied the dragon. "I remember the Silverbloods – they would have indeed killed the king if he had turned, as they would have you, had you not escaped. They are blind in their dedication, harnessed to the road in which they must slay every unfortunate to be cursed by the werewolf. You would have not outlasted the night."

"But they said they had a cure!" Merlin protested. "They said—"

"People will say anything in order to accomplish their goals, you know this," Kilgharrah interrupted, his tone grim. "The silver rock they claimed could hold your conscious before that of the werewolf's is just that: a silver rock, nothing more. I very much doubt it was even part of the blades they said it did, but even if they told that much of a truth, they were simply finding a cover for killing you." The dragon adopted a mocking tone. "They would still claim it to have been an _attempt_, only things _got out of hand_." The scaly ridges above his golden eyes furrowed in a frown, and his lip curled back to reveal ivory teeth within. A puff of smoke swirled from each of his nostrils and drifted away into the breeze. "It is difficult to say whether their intentions are good, for they aim to cleanse the land of a terrible and dangerous evil, yet their methods are dark and they care not of who the monster once was."

It was then that Merlin was hit with the full weight of the problem, and his previous feelings of overwhelming frustration, sorrow, and despair were nothing to how he felt now. He blinked away sudden tears, clearing his throat and refusing to meet the dragon's eye. His next words were carefully chosen, and slow in the coming.

"I...I'm lost. I don't know what to do. There seemed to be so much hope with every other obstacle, with the Dorocha, and the Questing Beast, even Morgause's immortal army! But this..." He bit his lip, shaking his head. "I've lost. I've failed. I've doomed Camelot, and with it, Albion." Finally, he looked up at Kilgharrah, and was shocked to notice something he had never before. The great dragon had seen over a thousand years of life, an incomprehensible feat to any mortal, but he had never really shown it before. Now, in this helpless state, facing a problem that he could not see over even with a millennium of experience, Kilgharrah looked..._old_.

"Oh, Merlin—"

"You should kill me," the warlock interrupted, throat closing, voice cracking. When the dragon didn't reply, he looked up, a fierce determination in his gaze. "Just do it. Kill me, before I kill someone else."

"Merlin—"

"Please, Kilgharrah. I would kill myself but I'm afraid of not doing it right and suffering. It won't take a moment, or cost you any effort. Look at me; I'm barely taller than your finger is long. I won't even feel a thing."

"_Merlin_—"

"If you don't, then I will. Either way, I will not live to see another sunset, nor experience the change ever again. I have this dagger here – it obviously is harmful to werewolves, and painful as it will be, at least I won't harm any more people..." Merlin stood, dry-eyed, expressionless. He nodded once at his old friend. "Goodbye, Kilgharrah. I thank you for all your help, and I—"

The roar that exploded from the ancient dragon startled the birds from the trees for a league around. Merlin recoiled as Kilgharrah tore up the earth with his claws, tail flailing, wings spread and buffeting the air into a tempest. So rare were the occasions that the warlock felt afraid of the dragon, but this bout of rage surpassed them all.

Kilgharrah swung a mighty paw, and Merlin was knocked onto his back. He somehow managed to scramble to his feet, and he bolted for the trees, only for the dragon to pounce. He landed just behind the warlock and then jumped again, crashing down between Merlin and the cover of the woods. Before the servant could change direction, Kilgharrah turned and swatted him to the ground, pinning him with one paw, and then thrust his face into his, teeth bared in a ferocious snarl.

All was silence. Merlin was sure Kilgharrah could feel his throbbing heartbeat beneath his great foot, and it took him nearly a minute to realize that he wasn't breathing. He sucked in a gulp of air and panted, trying to soothe his heart. The dragon continued to drill him with his ominous glare, a deep rumble like thunder sounding in his throat.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, a wave of understanding overcame the warlock, and shame brought a dampness to his eyes that couldn't be blinked away.

"Thank you," he croaked, and when the dragon's nostrils flared, he said, "I realize now...I don't want to die."

* * *

"**You either die a hero, or you live long enough to see yourself become the villain." ~ Harvey Dent (Batman)**

**We'll just see about that, Mr. Dent.**


	15. Rats from Within

~15~ Rats from Within

"Tiberius, to me."

Baldwin waited as his second lieutenant joined him at the window of the tower cell, overlooking the city of Camelot. He was appreciative that the king had not decided to place them in the dungeons below the citadel, but that's where his gratitude ended. They were still locked up like dogs.

"Sir?"

"You said Benjamin still had the Heart when we were arrested, yes?"

"Yes, sir. He managed to avoid being caught, however, along with five others."

Baldwin snorted. "Fools. Benjamin I understand, for he needed to keep the Heart safe, but the others..." He shook his head. "Makes us look more guilty by tenfold." He turned to his lieutenant. "Why did the Heart stop working, I wonder?"

Tiberius shrugged. "I do not know, captain."

Baldwin looked sour. "The set up could not have been better. We would have been rid of one werewolf and not be blamed for it. The cages not being secured to the ground was a bad idea, though. Something so obvious was seen way past the supposition of it being a simple spurt of negligence. King Arthur is no fool, nor are his knights. Adam will answer to this."

"How do you suggest we escape, captain?"

Facing the barred window again, Baldwin replied, "There is nothing that we can do here without hurting anybody. We will send word to the surviving Blackhands. The others of our order would have met up with them by now – they'll find something. They are, after all, obligated to serve their true leader. Perhaps we'll be able to spring Jonathan Vane as well. Foolish as he is, he may prove useful, for he is certainly ambitious."

"So how do we send word?"

Just then, there was a creak and a groan as the prison cell door was opened. Three guards came in.

"Captain Baldwin, if you please," said the first man.

Baldwin gave Tiberius a brief smile. "It already has." He let himself be led from the room.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Arthur tried to keep his anger from his features as he waited for Baldwin to approach, though he knew that the Silverblood could See it anyway. Baldwin was led right up to the throne, but before the guards could force him to his knees, Arthur waved a hand in dismissal, leaving the captain standing. The king studied him for several seconds until he moved, whether in impatience or discomfort Arthur couldn't tell. Finally, he stood as well.

"You think I'm a fool. And perhaps, for trusting you, I am indeed a fool." He met the older man's gaze evenly. "What was that voodoo performance in the woods, hm? Circles drawn in the dirt, scented candles, a silver _rock_. And the cages – not even attached to the ground." Arthur shook his head in disgust. "You had planned this from the very beginning."

"I assure you, sire, that I had no idea—"

"_That your plot would fail?_" Arthur roared, taking two furious strides forward. He bit his cheek and tried to dampen his tone to a more disciplined level, an icy fire. "You nearly had my servant killed. Knowing that he was going to escape that useless cage, and thinking that I would have believed you'd given an honourable attempt to keep his sanity with a lump of silver ore..." It took all his self-control to not strike the man down where he stood. "One of your men was killed because of you, and one of mine nearly followed suit. Now, for once, tell me the truth: what the hell are you playing at?"

For several seconds, Baldwin merely stood there, holding his gaze steady. Finally, he said, "Will my people be well cared for?"

"I admire a leader who cares for the welfare of his company, but stop stalling."

Now Baldwin swallowed. "Has your servant been found, sire?"

Arthur growled. "No."

"He should be, and fast."

"Oh, and why's that? And don't try to say he'll turn anytime soon. Gaius, our physician, informed me that we have between a day and a whole week before he changes again."

Baldwin shifted. "Ah, yes...Actually, I was thinking more long the lines of his own safety."

"He can take care of himself."

"Can he? With a turned werewolf searching for him? I would be wary, for his sake."

"What do you mean?"

The captain sounded bolder, now that he'd captured the king's attention. "The werewolf that infected you and your servant is in the near countryside. By now, it would have claimed the territory for its own, and if it catches the scent of your servant, then I'm afraid the boy will have little hope in his human form."

_Dammit_, Arthur mentally cursed. _I'd forgotten about that werewolf_. "Don't concern yourself with him. He's not your problem."

"You should take one of our horses, your majesty," said Baldwin, somehow knowing Arthur's plans. He continued before the king could ask why. "Your beasts will not take you; you smell too much like the monster. Our horses, however, are trained to face creatures such as werewolves, and should let you ride them."

Though Arthur didn't show it, he was grateful for the offer. He'd forgotten that the last time he'd ridden, the mad horse had thrown him and then bolted to the other side of the field. He'd told no one in his chagrin.

"Take him back to his cell," he ordered of the guards, who approached and seized Baldwin by the arms. "I will speak with him later." The king turned away as the captain was removed from the room, thinking, worrying.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Baldwin knew that the red-haired Silverblood, Bianca, was the one whom Sir Gwaine had saved the night before from the werewolf servant. She was waiting anxiously by the door as the captain was led back in, and as soon as it was opened, she asked of the guards, "Is that knight okay? Is Sir Gwaine going to be fine?"

"Back away from the door, miss," the guard commanded gruffly.

"Please, can you give him a message? Can you tell him of my gratitude? Please, it's just a little favour, please."

The guard was clearly hooked by Bianca's beauty. He blushed and said, "I'll see what I can do."

Then the door was slammed closed behind the Silverblood captain, who turned and sneered at Bianca. "Don't be so taken by these barbarians, _sister_," he said, before moving to stand near Tiberius, the sergeant turned second lieutenant. "Everything seems to be in order."

"In order, captain?"

Baldwin's smile was near hidden by his short salt and pepper beard. "By now, young Frederico will have left the city, bringing word to the Blackhands and whoever is left of our order." He smirked. "It was brilliant of Asmodius to think of placing one of our own in employment to Camelot. After all, no one pays attention to a lowly kitchen novice. Stupid as that boy is, he will get things done, and done well, without appearing conspicuous. Usually."

"What word is he taking, exactly?"

"Do I have to spell it out for you? The king is joining a search party to look for the infected servant...What does he have with that boy? It's like he's his best friend or something."

"I've heard rumours that Merlin had saved the king's life on multiple occasions."

"Hm. Anyway, Sophia is among those who remain free of Camelot's cells. If anyone can create a successful ambush for one man, it would be our assassin. She had better not fail us this time."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

As expected, all but the Silverblood horse shied away at Arthur's presence. It made him feel very distant, and alone, yet he kept a straight face and took the reins of the black gelding, whose nostrils flared at his scent and ears plastered against his head. He let the king mount the saddle, however, which was a start.

"We have until dusk!" Arthur called out over the din of thirty horses, howling dogs and conversing men. "Watch each others' backs. No one goes alone. Don't take any unnecessary risks. Remember, werewolves are affected by silver. Move out!"

The king led the way out of the city, past the site where the servant had turned and close to where they had assumed they heard the turned werewolf. There, the dogs were put on the scent and followed.

Arthur stopped, ordered a sergeant to take the con and indicated Elyan to follow him, as he was closest.

"I'm going to find Merlin," he said lowly, just loud enough for the knight to hear over his uneasy horse. "I think I know which way he went."

"How do you know?" Elyan asked, curbing his steed irritably. The poor creature was too uneasy around the king.

Arthur shook his head, baffled. "I...I don't know. I just have this sense..."

The knight looked sceptical, but nodded. "I will follow you."

So, Arthur went his own way with Elyan. The trail was relatively easy to follow, for the marks on the soft ground and surrounding foliage were distinguishable. It only took two hours for Arthur to come across the corpse of a man who had been dead for over half a day.

The black gelding snorted at the smell of death and bloody carnage, tossing his head in protest. Arthur dismounted as Elyan caught up on foot, having tethered his horse further back.

"Well, now we know what happened to Baldwin's lieutenant," the knight grunted, covering his nose with unsuppressed disgust.

Though it appalled him, Arthur crouched near the corpse, scattering the swarm of flies as he did so. He swallowed his breakfast as he inspected the drying flesh, and recognized the remains of feeding.

_Damn, Merlin. If you knew what you have done_...

"He knows what he did," said Elyan, as if reading Arthur's thoughts. "He changed back. Look here."

Arthur joined the knight near the roots of a tree, and blanched. There were definite human footprints wandering around the site, leading to and from the decomposing body of a white horse. Near the roots of the tree lay a putrid pile of what could only be vomit, the half-digested remains of Asmodius.

"He's going to need counselling after this," Elyan muttered.

Arthur again had to force back his nausea as he backed away, towards the ebony gelding. "Let's continue," he said coarsely. Mounted, he followed the human tracks back into the foliage, now more of a challenge after the chaotic mess the werewolf had left in its wake. As the forest thinned, he was able to kick the gelding faster, Elyan on his heels.

He did not hear, over the snapping of plants and thunder of hooves on soft earth, when Elyan fell from his horse after getting shot in the neck with a dart. It wasn't until he stopped hearing the knight's horse that he got a nagging sense of unease eating at his mind, and he slowed his own steed to a trot as he glanced over his shoulder. Seeing the knight gone, he almost managed to stop before the hooded Silverblood agent dropped from above and landed on the rump of his horse, just behind him. He was too slow to do anything other than gasp before the attacker wrestled him from the saddle and fell with him to the ground.

A pain ripped through his side, the bite wound still on its way to healing, as they both rolled to a halt. Instinct came out fully fledged then, and he immediately lashed out with a clenched fist at the Silverblood, recognized by the stag emblem on her front. The blow glanced across her jaw, but she was unaffected, as she had pulled far enough away with lightning speed at the right moment. She tried to kick him where it hurt men most, but Arthur had already log-rolled to a safe distance and scrambled to his feet.

Before he could draw his sword, the woman lunged at him, throwing him off-balance as he swerved to avoid her. Her own naked dagger slashed through the air, and Arthur could only thank the werewolf venom in his veins for being fast enough to dodge to the side. His speed still astonished him, and therefore he was too slow to avoid the next assault. He grunted as a deep gash opened his pectoral, and then screamed silently as what felt like liquid fire bled across his chest.

He staggered back several paces, staring in aghast at the smoke curling gently from his torn flesh. It was as though his assailant had poisoned the blade with acid.

_Silver! _he thought furiously. _The dagger must be edged with silver!_

Arthur had to retreat again as the Silverblood took advantage of his shock and pain to attack once more. When the dagger slashed through empty air, he grappled with her and tried to force the blade from her grasp, with radical success. The woman shrieked as her wrist shattered, crushed beneath his fingers due to the superhuman strength. This time, Arthur didn't succumb to surprise, and he kicked the burning dagger away.

"Release me, beast!" the woman screamed, but was helpless as Arthur mercilessly continued to hold her crushed wrist. Her accent was thick and alien, just like the rest of her kin.

"What is the meaning of this?" Arthur roared, and was pleased to see the Silverblood quail in fear. "Who are you? Did Baldwin send you to do this?"

"I don't deal with _monsters_. Get away from me, I say!"

For one bewildering moment, Arthur thought that the woman had no bones as her leg came up and kneed him in the temple. Stunned, he let go of her useless wrist and fell, landing painfully on his side. Before he could do so much as breathe, she pushed him onto his front and held him down, putting her knee on his neck. She then started to make a strange, shrill cry, and by experience, Arthur knew that it was some kind of signal.

_There are _more_ loose Silverbloods? How many are there?_

It didn't matter. All that he cared about was getting free before they arrived. With a growl, he started to squirm, despite the pain in his neck. By rights he should have been unable to move, but it was as though the werewolf inside had allied itself with him and was lending him its awesome strength. The Silverblood squeaked as she was suddenly thrown, and Arthur pounced to pin her down before she could reach for another weapon. He was too slow.

This time he voiced his pain as a new silver-edged knife flashed from the woman's belt and cut across his stomach. He curled up as he rolled back away from her, an arm held across the wound. It was uncontrollable, the reaction was, and the agony was so great, he could only think that the werewolf within could feel it, too.

A needle-like pain pierced his jugular, and his vision swirled like a drunkard's. He tried to lash out at the Silverblood one last time, but his arms were filled with stones, and he could do not but slump uselessly to the ground. The last thing he saw was the smirk his attacker gave as his vision faded to nothing.

* * *

**You know you're running out of chapter title ideas when you put "Rats from Within" -.-**

"**You may think you're a king, but you're going to die...like a _dog!_" ~ Maugrim (The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe)**


	16. Heart of the Beast

~16~ Heart of the Beast

"Fight it, Merlin. Fight it!" Kilgharrah could do nothing but offer words of encouragement as the warlock writhed helplessly in pain, silently battling the clawing monster within. Twice the Great Dragon thought he would lose, but Merlin always managed to keep his mind, and, therefore, his body, from clutches of the werewolf. It must have been the magic within him, holding him at the master's chair. "You are in control! This is the heart you know! This mind, this soul! You are Merlin the warlock, not the werewolf. _You_ are in control! Fight it!"

"Can't..._hurts_..." the servant coughed out, teeth gritted, eyes screwed shut from the agony. "Help me—"

"I cannot help you, Merlin. You must fight this on your own. But I _know_ you can. Keep speaking to me. Tell me of Ealdor, tell me of Freya."

Merlin did his best, gasping what words he could as he struggled to remember who and what he was. Kilgharrah continued to encourage him, hiding the angst and pouring free the hope as the dusk rolled on, emitting the stars and the moon wilfully.

The internal battle raged on for another hour, and Merlin never stopped moving or fighting through it all. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity of torment, the warlock lay gasping, spittle around his mouth and tears still damp on his cheeks, but no longer writhing. Kilgharrah waited expectantly as the servant sat up, wiping his face clean with his sleeve. When he was sure no more pain was to come, he got to his hands and knees, and used a tree to help him stand.

"I did it," he said, his voice raw, but he was smiling.

The dragon chuckled. "I must confess my astonishment, young warlock. I thought Albion had lost you."

"But it's not over," Merlin replied, shaking his head. "This will happen every night until I change, and soon I will have no chance, no _choice_...I don't think I could stand another attack like that."

"You have to," grumbled the dragon forcefully. "And you will continue to have to until we find a cure."

"What cure?" Merlin shouted in exasperation. "If there was a cure, then any small shreds of humanity that remain in the Silverbloods must be big enough to at least save a king. _I_ don't matter, but a whole county depends on Arthur. Heck, all of _Albion_ depends on him."

"This is not the Merlin I know," Kilgharrah thundered, the ridge over one eye raised disapprovingly. "The Merlin _I_ know never gives up even when death and failure is staring him in the face."

"I'm not giving up!" the warlock argued defensively. "I just can't see the way forward. What about you? You're a thousand years old. You must know _something!_"

"I do not need to see the path when I can smell."

Merlin scowled. "What the hell does that mean?" To his surprise, the dragon chuckled merrily.

"You haven't noticed yet? How can you not?"

"Notice what? Because in case _you_ haven't realized, _I_ just spent the last three hours fighting for my sanity. My patience is a little tight right now."

"Take a deep breath, hatchling, and tell me what you think."

Though he continued to grumble in discontent, Merlin did so, drawing in a deep breath through his nose. To his astonishment, he detected things he would otherwise could have not.

"I...can smell the earth," he muttered. "And the leaves, and the rocks, and the river, way over there." He frowned. "And...smoke. I can smell smoke."

"There you go," the dragon said smugly.

"There I go what?"

Now Kilgharrah rolled his great golden eyes. "Sometimes I wonder at your intelligence, _warlock_." He lowered his head so his gaze was level with Merlin's. "What is smoke caused by?"

"Fire."

"Good. Now where do fires come from?"

"Dragons and fire salamanders."

"Stop playing with me, boy!"

Merlin grinned, then coughed as Kilgharrah puffed a large waft of tangy smoke in his face. "A c-camp!" he choked, waving a hand before his face. "There's a camp nearby."

"Finally!"

"You think it's the Silverbloods? But it could be anybody!"

"Well, it's worth checking out, wouldn't you agree?" The giant dragon lowered himself to the ground, tail coiling about his body comfortably. "I shall wait here."

Merlin sighed, then took off through the trees from the clearing, following his nose. This new nasal skill could only be from his contaminated blood, but he wasn't about to start thanking the werewolf for anything. He hurtled effortlessly over a large log that should have hindered him on a regular day, and even managed to jump a wide stream without getting wet.

He had to admit, this new strength and speed was invigorating.

As it was smoke he was trailing, it was difficult to track its exact source. He ended up going in circles until he reached a point where loud, boisterous conversations could be heard in the near distance. Switching to stealth from haste, Merlin approached the loud voices, and was startled to hear a sudden snarl of fury from a beast he could not identify.

It didn't take long for the ruins of an outpost to come into view between the trees, the windows, door, and gaping holes in the walls pulsing with a warm orange light. It was rather large, with a crumbling tower leaning dangerously towards the trees. The roof of the main building was mostly gone, and by the way the light appeared, it would seem that the fire was in the basement, the main floor being mostly demolished.

Merlin moved like a stalking mountain cat towards the outpost ruins, avoiding where his bare feet would crunch against twigs and leaves. He stepped on a thorn and unwillingly cursed aloud as he jumped. Then he threw himself to the ground, and listened. No alarms rose from the settlement. He breathed easy as he massaged his injured foot, wishing that Asmodius had had boots in his saddlery, not for the first time.

As he drew nearer, Merlin's stomach growled as he smelled roasting meat, heard the succulent juices dripping to hiss in the embers below. When had he eaten last? Then he remembered _what_ he eaten last, and immediately lost his appetite.

The inhabitants' conversations grew ever more sharp as Merlin closed in, but he ignored them as he skirted closer to the ruins, closing in until he reached a crumbling wall with a window space. He peeked through and glanced down, noting, that, indeed, the main floor was almost entirely gone and the inhabitants were camping in the large basement.

Who were the inhabitants? Merlin quickly saw the flags that hung from the walls, recognizing the dark hand print on the white background. And standing on a side stage, built with stumps and old planks, was a familiar and unwelcome face. Argus Vane, cult master of the Blackhands.

Merlin had the sudden inclination to flee, for he knew this cult wasn't exactly welcome company, but then he saw the large, latticed cage that had been set up in the middle of the bottom floor. There were a few small, single-person cells attached to the large central cage by narrow, barred passageways, which Blackhands were eagerly swarming around. It didn't take long for Merlin to see that three of the smaller prisons were occupied. But by whom? The bonfire that lay across from the warlock cast the prisoners into odd, questionable shapes. One looked bigger than a bear, but that couldn't be right.

There was a section of wall with a window that was slightly closer than his current position, which would give him more cover yet also placed him closer to Argus Vane. He moved stealthily towards it, careful to turn no stones or rustle any foliage. There could be sentries that he'd miraculously evaded who might yet detect him.

Some of the Blackhands were carrying torches, and as they moved closer to the cages, Merlin realized what the bear-sized figure in one of the cages really was.

_They recaptured the rogue werewolf, the one that infected me and Arthur!_ he thought, eyes widening. _But...how?_

"Good evening, fellow Blackhands and Silverbloods!"

_Wait...Blackhands_ and _Silverbloods? What madness is this? They...they can't be working together, can they?_

"It is my greatest pleasure tonight to welcome you all on this fine night, a night graced unlike every other by Nocturn's black, celestial hand."

Merlin studied the speaker, a regally-dressed Blackhand with dark hair and smug demeanour. He stood on a large piece of broken foundation, lifting himself up above the others.

"We have a _special_ treat for you tonight, brothers and sisters!" the speaker continued, pausing for suspense. "A presentation for his lordship Nocturn – two conflicting werewolves, and a fight to the death!"

Merlin's heart sank. It had already fallen when the announcer had said Blackhands _and_ Silverbloods, but now, as he learned their intentions, it felt like his heart was digging its way past his stomach and making for his feet.

_They have Arthur._

Merlin nearly cursed aloud. He had to force himself to not jump down at that very moment and charge into an attack in a vain attempt to free his friend. As it was, his nails dug into the ancient wooden sill of the window, gouging the oak with crescent grooves. It hurt, but he didn't really notice, or care.

"Oh, but do not thank me!" the Blackhand chuckled over the enthusiastic applause. "Thank Sophia, your own renowned assassin – now successful kidnapper!" This time he was greeted with clapping and bursts of laughter. A woman with the silver stag on the black field emblem on her chest, who must only be Sophia, bowed mockingly to the crowd.

_Assassin? She must be the one who nearly killed Arthur two days ago._ Merlin felt internal hackles rise, and he nearly struck the woman down right then and there, but then the speaker resumed and the warlock recalled that he was vastly outnumbered, even with magic.

"Who will it be, brothers and sisters? The noble and heroic King Arthur?" There was a smattering of applause, but mostly, there were boos and hisses of distaste. "Or our beloved, legendary Lord Rowan?"

As the roaring cheers and mirthless laughter filled the air, Merlin pondered. _Rowan. Rowan? Where have I heard that name before?_

He made a brief head count, and decided that there must be at least thirty men and women, probably more. _So many Blackhands and Silverbloods escaped arrest...How will I free Arthur without getting him hurt?_

"Take your seats, my friends. The show is about to begin!"

_Think think _think! They were going to pit Arthur against a monster!

The cultist speaker spontaneously slapped his own forehead, looking incredulous at himself. "Oh, I almost forgot! We have a pre-show for your own entertainment! If you would be so kind as to turn your attention to the next cage, friends."

Merlin unwillingly did the same, and as the torch bearers moved closer, he was able to see the figure slowly starting to move on the floor of the cage. Ashen faced, he realized that it was Elyan.

"I present to you, a knight of Camelot! Watch as he faces his very own king in battle!"

_No, no! Not this!_ Merlin's thoughts roiled in distress, unable to straighten under the pressure. He focused on Arthur, who was also just arousing himself as though he had been asleep the whole time. _Oh no. If his body is resting, if he's not fully awake_...

There were murmurs of anticipation from the Blackhands as Elyan straightened, fear flickering across his features as he realized where he was.

"What madness is this?" the knight demanded, and all at once, any visible terror was gone. "Release me at once!"

"Yeah, sure, we'll _release_ you!" one cultist chortled, stabbing a baton into the cage and poking Elyan in the back. With a snarl, the knight turned around and grabbed the shaft with both hands. Before the Blackhand could retreat with his weapon, Elyan threw his weight down and the baton shattered in two against the bars.

The swift action drew blood-lusting roars of approval.

"We have a _fighter_ tonight, friends!" the speaker bellowed. With that, the metal screen that separated the small cage's tunnel to the large cell was removed from the outside, and multiple short spears forced Elyan through the passageway into the arena, the ground of which was littered with various weapons.

"Enough of this game!" Elyan snapped.

"Enough?" the Blackhand announcer asked, a twinge of mockery on his tone. "My dear knight, we haven't even _started_ yet!"

The barrier between Arthur's cage and the arena also was taken away, but the king was too dazed to move.

"Get him out of there," the speaker ordered, and a door to the main cell was unlocked. Two Blackhands entered to fetch Arthur while three others lunged forward to keep Elyan from attacking or escaping. The knight was swearing curses most foul, but the men paid him no heed.

The first two Blackhands ducked into the tunnel and entered the smaller cell. Each grasped Arthur by the arms and dragged him roughly through, to dump into the dust in derision. Then all the Blackhands hastened from the arena. The door shut with a reverberating _boom_ that rattled the whole cage.

Merlin had been so focused on the events playing out before him that he had entirely forgotten about the other werewolf, which could only be the Rowan spoken of by the speaker. It had been quiet for the first while, but as it scented fresh meat and anticipated a fight, it began to pace the confining cage in frustration, growling in its throat and baring ivory teeth. Its glossy grey fur rippled over bulking muscle as it prowled, snapping at any man who strayed too near.

From his viewpoint, it was easy for Merlin to see that while most of the men and women respectfully enjoyed the dawning spectacle with a level of dignity, there was a small few, those with the silver stag emblem on their chests, who seemed almost mournful as they gazed at the werewolf that was once called Rowan. Why was that?

Merlin ignored this new observation. He had enough of those to riddle out.

"Here's how we play this little game," the Blackhand speaker said, looking at Elyan. "You fight, you live. You falter, you die. Survive your king long enough, and by the grace of our master, Argus Vane, we'll let you go. Any questions?"

The knight scowled.

"Yes. When do I get the chance to rip your heart out?"

The announcer laughed with the rest of them, not of mirth, but of eager anticipation. Vane smirked, but that was all.

"It seems that the stories are true, eh, brothers and sisters? These knights are a force to be reckoned with!"

Elyan ignored them all now and strode forward to his fallen king. Arthur was shifting, but barely, and slowly. Merlin couldn't hear them, but he could see their mouths moving as they conversed. Suddenly, Arthur pushed the knight away.

"Stay away from me!"

As Elyan staggered back, the king began to cringe and crumple, crying out in pain.

Merlin could only stare in open horror as Arthur eventually began to change. He watched as his head elongated into that of a wolf's. He watched as his shoulders bulged with expanding muscle. He watched as he tore away his cloths and very skin and his whole body sprouted golden hair.

He watched as the transformation from man to beast completed, and then as the werewolf closed in on Elyan, blood lust in its eyes.

* * *

******What can I say? I live in a valley. There are cliffies everywhere.**

"**This is where I come in!" ~ Van Helsing (Van Helsing)**


	17. The Enemy of My Enemy

~17~ The Enemy of My Enemy

Elyan had but a moment to dive to the side of the caged arena and scoop up a buckler before the werewolf was upon him. Merlin watched helplessly from his viewpoint as the beast that had once been Arthur slashed at the hapless knight, snarling viciously. The claws shrieked across the metal studs of Elyan's shield, and then the knight retreated, dodging to the side to where various weapons lay prone in the dirt. He reached a mourning star first and swung it at the beast's head as it pounced. It growled and jumped back, now more wary.

The audience of Silverbloods and their corrupted kin, the Blackhands, cheered the fight on, banging the sides of the giant cage with weapons of their own. Again, Merlin couldn't help but notice that the Silverbloods of Captain Baldwin's company, recognized by their stag mantles, were not nearly as enthusiastic as their brethren, and kept glancing anxiously at the other restless werewolf, the one that was once named Rowan, kept in the side cage. What was more astonishing, and more than a little enigmatic, was when one of their number, the woman called Sophia, glanced furtively around as she backed into the shadows, nodding once at a fellow Silverblood before climbing out of the basement of the outpost ruins by means of a ladder, then vanishing into the woods. Merlin had the urge to go after her, knowing that she was the one who had captured Arthur in the first place, but then he hesitated. He couldn't abandon Elyan.

The knight was having increasing difficulty keeping the werewolf at bay. He swung the mace every time the beast stepped closer, but it was becoming more bolder with every passing moment.

Eventually, as had been inevitable, Elyan staggered back, pulling a hand away from a wound on his shield arm. Tasting blood, the werewolf howled in triumph and came after him. The knight lifted his mace high, only to trip backwards over a club and land on his rear in the dirt. He was defenceless as the beast bore down on him, jaws gaped.

_Sorry, Arthur_, thought Merlin as his eyes flashed gold.

The werewolf yelped in pain and stared at its hand, then growled. It glared down at Elyan as though blaming him for the agony his limb suddenly and inexplicably experienced, but before it could lash out at him, it snarled as its leg felt the same muscle-wrenching pain, and fell over.

Elyan took advantage of the strange occurrence and swung his mourning star at the beast's back. The spikes could not penetrate the thick hide, but its weight was sufficient enough. The werewolf yelped when the weapon struck its spine, and before it could turn, the knight attacked again, though Merlin saw the hesitation in his motion. The monster was still Arthur, and if he hit a fatal blow...

The warlock aimed his painful magic at the werewolf's other hand, but also held back. It was all the beast needed to whirl around and strike Elyan across the chest, sending him sprawling against the bars of the cage. The spectators of Blackhands laughed and applauded, like a sophisticated rabble of demented rich folk.

Stunned, the knight could not stand, but Merlin saved him once more as he struck his magic at the werewolf's shoulders, making it whine in agony and arch its spine backwards. It fell to its knees as it clawed uselessly at itself, and Elyan had sufficient time to stand and regain ground.

_I think you've had enough, Elyan_, Merlin said inwardly, and scanned the bars of the arena with a critical eye. _There_.

It was to the astonishment of all when the door of the cage exploded outward, the lock shattering and the hinges squealing in protest. Like an imprisoned animal finally sensing freedom, Elyan bolted for the exit, hacking at the Blackhand guard who tried to intercept him. Three other corrupted Silverbloods ran after him, but Elyan's desperation helped him to outstrip them all, and he flew up the ladder, knocking down a sentry as he patrolled too near, and vanished into the woods.

Merlin sighed with relief. He'd feared that the knight would stay to try in vain to help Arthur, but instead, he'd thought to return to Camelot to raise the alarm. Merlin himself would deal with this crowd.

"Get after him!" Argus Vane snapped. "Do not let him escape!"

Six cultists swarmed up the ladder and pursued the knight. Merlin was watching avidly when a voice hissed from behind.

"What the hell are you doing?"

The warlock stifled a yelp at the last second but nearly bashed his head on the top of the window sill. He started to turn just as a hand came around and clamped over his mouth.

"_Shh!_ Rhetorical question." It was an unfamiliar voice with a familiar accent, and definitely a woman's.

Merlin was about to set loose a burst of magic that would blast her away, but she tightened her grasp on his mouth and jerked him towards herself until his upper back was against her body, then her hand released his jaw and held a knife less than an inch from his neck. The motion was so fast, it was a miracle she didn't throw both of their balances off and pull him to the ground.

"Don't move, or I'll slit you like a pig. This is silver. I'm sure you know what it feels like by now."

Merlin didn't need to speak to use magic, which would have tipped her off and let her kill him before he could finish any incantation, but he was strangely curious to know what the woman wanted. If she was with the Blackhands, then she would have raised the alarm by now.

"Now tell me, what are you doing here? Are you trying to get yourself killed, werewolf?"

"I'm not a—"

"Save it. I can See the beast within you."

_She's a Silverblood!_ Merlin thought with alarm. _But why aren't I dead yet?_

"Don't worry about your friend. He'll be fine and go for help. It's your king you should be focusing on."

The woman moved him so that he could see the arena, and he was shocked to see that the beast that was Arthur was standing perfectly still near the centre of the ring, not even acknowledging that there was an open doorway before it.

"What's wrong with him? Why isn't he trying to escape?"

"Because they aren't letting him."

"Huh? What do you mean? Who are you?"

"I was your king's assassin, then kidnapper, and now, hopefully, saviour."

"_What?_" It was Sophia!

"Ouch! By the Archons, please be quiet and stop _squirming!_ You're hurting my wrist." Even as she said this, the knife at Merlin's throat never budged, be it closer or further away. Her other arm, he finally noticed, was stiff as it held his chest, as though bandaged.

"You're hurt."

"Yes. You have your king to thank for that. But we can discuss retaliations later. I'm going to let you go now."

The warning was not taken lightly, and Merlin gently pulled away from Sophia's embrace and turned.

"What do you mean, they're not letting him escape? They aren't even moving!" he hissed, half-turning as to see the motionless Blackhands, all conversing with each other. Vane was growling at a few of his cultists, berating them for being too slow.

"Arthur Pendragon is under the influence of the Silver Heart."

"The what?"

"You heard me. Stop asking me to repeat myself," Sophia snapped in a hushed tone. "The Heart was a discovery made by the Silverbloods over a century ago. It permits us to gain full control over werewolves."

"What? But...but..."

"I know, this all looks bad, for me, for my kin, and for the Blackhands. But you must understand." Her voice grew pleading. "The Silverbloods, we aren't what we've made out to be. Captain Baldwin isn't as cruel and heartless as you may think."

"Aye, I do think that."

"We should not speak here. We may be seen or heard."

"No. We stay here. Start talking."

The assassin woman sighed. She hesitated frequently as she finally brought the truth to light. "As you may have suspected, the Blackhands are closely related to me and my kin. They are merely Silverbloods who had chosen to remain behind, here in Albion, when our kind was disbanded almost a hundred years ago, after the fall of the last werewolf. The rest of us, including my predecessors, returned to Italia, where we faded from thought and praise." She shook her head in regret. "I—_we_—had no idea, until a few months ago, what our parted family was doing here in Albion over the past few decades. At least, most of us didn't. It seems that Captain Baldwin and his lieutenants knew of something, but considered it not a threat. That was folly."

"The Blackhands had Rowan, didn't they?"

Sophia stifled her astonishment well. "Yes, they did. Do you know who Rowan was?"

"No. All I know is that he's down there right now, in that cage."

"Yes. Lord Rowan, the ultimate true leader of our order, was the man who slew one of the last werewolves. Baldwin's grandfather was there. He saw the beast fall, and vouched for Rowan's demise as well. Most of us, not including Baldwin, had thought him dead all this time, and it wasn't until a few months ago, in our homeland, that we all learned the truth."

"That Rowan had indeed survived and had been infected."

"Indeed. Baldwin's grandfather, Julius, was Rowan's best friend, and he his. They were inseparable, much like you and your king are now. Julius had just arrived with the Heart in an attempt to cull the werewolf before it bit Rowan, but was too late. As the beast died, Julius took Rowan away and hid him from all those who may want to hurt him, telling only a trusted few. Rowan was the best leader the Silverbloods had ever known, and even today, Baldwin worships him because of the tales passed down from his forefathers. I myself cannot help but admire him as well, which is why I, and my kin, loath to see his remains locked in that cage down there."

Both Sophia and Merlin now looked down at the arena, where Arthur's werewolf still stood like a dazed dog, barely moving but to breathe and lick its lips.

"Why is Rowan still alive?" asked the warlock. "Do werewolves have longer life spans?"

"I will tell you more later, but right now we have to get your king out of there."

"How?"

"It would be impossible to get the Heart from Claudius, Vane's soothsayer, there," Sophia said, indicating with her chin to the Blackhand standing beside Argus. "He reclaimed it by force from our priest, Benjamin. We have to find a way to distract him enough to let Arthur Pendragon get his mind...well, _werewolf_ mind, back and so escape."

"Leave that to me."

"Good. Now—"

"Brothers and sisters, it is unfortunate that our first event was so tragically spoiled by inattention." It was the Blackhand speaker, sadly shaking his head. "However, we still have our beloved Rowan here, who will have no greater pleasure than to rip the offender, who has trespassed on his hard-won territory, to pieces!"

Merlin cursed as he watched the soothsayer, Claudius, lift high the familiar gleaming animal figurine, which could only be the Silver Heart Sophia warned about. As the Blackhand did so, Arthur's beast lifted its head and howled a challenge at the werewolf in the cage. Rowan, in turn, slashed at the ground, pulling up clods of dirt.

"Open the gate!"

It took less than a heartbeat for Rowan to shoot through the tunnel from his small cage to the large arena, where he immediately went about doing what Claudius had promised: ripping Arthur to pieces.

* * *

*******Hides behind shield while explaining quickly:* I didn't mean for this to be a cliffie but with the next section it would have be********en too long ****_don't hurt me!_**

**"Keep your friends close, and your enemies closer." ~ Niccol****ò**** Machiavelli (?)**


	18. Distractions

~18~ Distraction

Merlin had seen a dog fight in the streets of Camelot once. The two cruelly-treated brutes bit and tore at each other with wild abandon, to kill or be killed, all for the pleasure and coin of their masters. He had been unsure of what to do, desperately wanting to pull the dogs apart but being too afraid to get close, else he lose a hand. Fortunately for the dogs, Merlin wasn't alone that day – Arthur had been patrolling and he was with the warlock when they came across the fight. The dogs were eventually separated and the owners arrested.

But now, Arthur was part of the fight, and there was no one there to separate him from the monster that was taller and stronger than him, not to mention more experienced. Rowan battered the other werewolf mercilessly, knocking him over and disregarding any repercussions Arthur dealt in return. Whines and snarls filled the air, and the sounds were enough to bring tears to Merlin's eyes.

Once, Arthur managed to stand and retreat far enough to get a breather, but did not submit, which invited Rowan to resume the fray. The werewolves circled, then Arthur lunged first, only for Rowan to claw at the side of his head and bash him to the dirt. Before he could stand, the former Silverblood leader latched saliva-drenched teeth around the back of his neck and shook him like a terrier wound a giant rat. Arthur's only fortune was that he was too big for Rowan to shake him hard enough to break his neck, but he was whining as the grey monster raked long claws down his back and he couldn't escape.

Merlin wanted to be sick.

"It's time to move, werewolf."

He tore his teary gaze away from the horrific sight at the sound of Sophia's empathetic but commanding voice. They slipped away from the window looking down into the outpost ruins that was the Blackhand encampment.

"Alright, go," she said. "Distract Claudius."

"What are _you_ doing?"

Sophia was preparing to blend with the shadows. "I'm not the only infuriated Silverblood here, remember? Just do what must be done, and let us handle the rest." She made to turn. "Oh, and werewolf?" Merlin paused. "These half-bloods may have lost much of their gift of our kind, but they will still be able to See your magic. Watch yourself." Then she was gone.

Out of the light of the torches, and covered by the hellish din of the fight, Merlin easily crept around the outer walls of the ruin, meeting no sentries, until he was stationed over Claudius and Argus Vane, near the ruined tower. He was frustrated to see that there were two watchful Blackhands at their flanks, as though they had anticipated a rescue mission.

_Damn them._

Sophia had said it was too risky to try and take the Silver Heart by force – she was right. Especially if they could See where his magic, assuming projectile magic, was coming from, he wouldn't stand a chance of escaping, at least without hurting a lot of people.

_But wait...Shouldn't they have Seen the magic I used to break the lock of the cage?_

A hand fell on his shoulder from behind.

_Ah. They did_.

Merlin wrestled soundlessly with the Blackhand as the man tried to tie his hands behind his back. The servant kicked and wriggled incessantly, frustrating his captor, but he dared not make a sound lest he warn the others in the camp. He had already silenced the Blackhand with magic, as the cultist quickly found out, so he couldn't call for help. And as Merlin threw his weight over, unbalancing the man so he crashed into a bush, no one saw even a sliver of motion because they were so engaged with the bloody fight raging in the cage.

With a silent snarl, Merlin tackled the man before he could properly stand and cracked him over the head with a rock. As he slumped lifelessly, the servant posed in a half crouch, rock at the ready, but there were no raised alarms. It was as though this Blackhand was the only one who saw Merlin's magic – or perhaps the magic hadn't required enough power to make itself visible to them. The pure Silverbloods would see it, but not the Blackhands.

That was a good advantage to have.

He left the unconscious attacker where he lay and prowled back to his vantage point behind and above Claudius, who was still holding the Silver Heart in his hands. Flashes of memory came unbidden to Merlin's mind, and he remembered the man he had chased, now over a week ago, in the waggon that held the previously undetermined monster. Merlin had broken the horses free of the carriage with magic, and then he had let go before the waggon crashed. The Blackhand driver had jumped as well, but then returned to the site and grabbed the silver animal figurine, now recognized as the Heart, and ran away into the trees.

Merlin had thought him gone for good, but thanks to Baldwin's son, that day in Gregory's Grove, he learned that the Blackhand driver had not left, but instead stayed to watch. From him, the Silverbloods learned that both Merlin and Arthur were infected that day.

And so rose new questions. Was that driver in league with the Silverbloods, or the Blackhands? Not ten minutes ago, Merlin would have thought both, but as he ran through his memories again, it appeared that the driver was purely with the Blackhand Cult. The next question was, Why did the man stay behind to watch? It took more thinking, but the answer came quickly enough, seeing as Merlin found it impossible to trust any Blackhand now. The driver had not only watched, but, in fact, controlled the werewolf Rowan, and ordered it to attack Arthur. After all, if the beast had free rein, then it would have slaughtered them all without a second thought. But why Arthur? Again, the question resolved itself. The Silverbloods had been of no more use when the werewolves were supposedly hunted to extinction a century ago. Half of them returned to their homeland overseas, while the others stayed in Albion, clinging to past glories and triumphs like limpets to a rock. What better way to win back that golden age other than to release the curse of the werewolf back into the world? And to do so with a king would have such a large impact on the county, and, when word got out and the disease spreads, all of Albion.

The warlock wouldn't be surprised if the Blackhands had planned for the Silverblood rejection and protest – it may have helped their cause, in the end. All in all, it was an admirable conspiracy.

Merlin hated conspiracies. Especially when they involved hurting his friends.

Claudius the soothsayer, the man with the Silver Heart that was controlling the werewolves, had a short yet wide sword at his hip. Merlin had half a mind to just draw it with magic and slay the Blackhand, which would probably save the servant a headache later. But instead, he bit his lip and simply let his magic go.

Claudius gave a sound of surprise when his sword drew itself and hovered just inches before his eyes. His guards stared, dumbstruck, glancing once at each other, while Argus Vane remained strangely impassive. Then the soothsayer lunged with his free hand to grab it from the air, only for it to float out of reach. As it returned, it slowly spun, taunting him.

Merlin couldn't help but snicker. Claudius barked at the Blackhands to get the flying sword back for him, but many stared strangely at him while others looked affronted in their hesitation.

_They must not respect him very much_, the warlock thought with swelling hope.

He amused himself for a while, lifting the blade effortlessly back and forth through the air, pleased that Claudius let him play for so long. The Blackhand spontaneously howled with frustration, seemingly oblivious to the audience he now had: everyone had stopped watching the squabbling werewolves in favour of the mysterious floating sword phenomenon. That is, everyone but the Silverbloods.

_Come on, Sophia. Open the bloody door already!_ Merlin was starting to feel his amusement split, and tension was seeping in through the cracks. Any one of the Blackhands could suddenly See his magic at any moment. Argus Vane was already scanning, seeking the source of the magic. _Hurry up!_

As though on cue, Sophia plunged down from the shadows and killed the Blackhand holding the broken arena door shut with her knife. Her fellow Silverbloods immediately made confusion, knocking down members of their corrupted kin.

Sophia yelled and waved her arms, immediately getting the attention of the two werewolves. Their ears pricked and they completely forgot each other as they saw freedom at hand.

Claudius saw it, too, and nearly shouted the alarm as he raised the Heart above his head. He never got to say anything, however, for his rebellious sword began to poke him, with a little coaxing from Merlin, of course. The Blackhand yelped when it jabbed into his rear end, and he waved it away as he would a pestering fly, but it was more persistent, not to mention painful, than a mere fly, and Claudius remained distracted enough for the werewolves to howl with triumph as they bolted through the open arena door, clawed up to ground level and fled into the woods, scattering screaming Blackhands like chickens.

And just like that, they were gone.

_It's high time I take my leave as well_, thought Merlin, just as Claudius dropped the Heart and snatched another Blackhand's sword, to hack at his bothersome floating blade like a madman. It was then that the warlock also noticed that many Blackhands were looking up in his general direction, if they weren't wrestling with Silverbloods. Of these, Vane seemed to be looking directly at him. Merlin felt a tremor of fear start in his toes and work up to his heart.

_No, no, you can't see me. It's too dark._ As Vane stepped closer, Merlin's gaze flickered to the fallen Silver Heart, and his palms started to sweat. _If I use magic to get that, he will See me for sure._

..._Well I guess it's worth the risk._

A Blackhand cried out in alarm before Merlin's spell even passed over his tongue. The Heart flew through the air and into his waiting arms, but then he had to flee, as fast as his legs could carry him. He forgot about the rebelling Silverbloods and only concerned himself with himself.

The sounds of pursuit hounded him through the trees, and his body thrummed with adrenaline. His breath came in easy gusts as he put on layer upon layer of speed, leaving the Blackhands far behind.

By his nearly overwhelming sense of smell, he was able to find the way towards the clearing where Kilgharrah said he would wait. In less than two minutes, he saw wide gaps in the trees. He nearly started to slow when an arrow shot past his ear and thudded into a nearby trunk. Ducking, he sped up again, liking the feeling of being hunted less and less with every stride.

_Have to lose them soon, else_—

"_AAHG!_"

Merlin howled as he felt his foot plunge into a hole and his ankle twist sharply. He fell, tumbling over and over, feeling stabbing pains shoot up his leg. He could do nothing but gasp and remain stiff as he lay on the ground. Even as he heard Blackhands fast approach, it was all he could do to move onto his back enough to ease the pain in his ankle.

He gritted his teeth and grasped under his thigh with both hands. With a grunt, he pulled his leg free, blinking away pain-wrought tears. Nearby, he saw a glimmer of silver – the Heart. Just as he reached for it, the wooden butt of a gnarled staff pinned his sleeve to the ground.

With a feral snarl, Merlin made to grasp the staff and tear it from its wielder, only for him to notice that whoever was holding it was dressed in dark and slightly ragged robes.

"You are in need of some assistance, Emrys?"

Merlin looked up in astonishment at the hooded figure standing above him, not imposing, not threatening, just simply _there_.

_A Druid!_ he thought in awe.

"Erm...It would be welcome," he stammered, smiling sheepishly.

The Druid lifted his staff, releasing Merlin's sleeve, just as the first Blackhand woman crashed through the bushes twenty paces away. She called the others and drew her sword, closing the distance swiftly.

"We have to go!"

The Druid made no movement as Merlin struggled to stand. The warlock rolled onto his front, balancing on his hands and the knee of the uninjured leg. He grunted as pain rippled through his ankle and he fell over. Through his teeth, he snapped, "Now!" The Druid still did nothing to help, even though the Blackhand was quickly bearing down on them, an eagerness in her movements.

Merlin was preparing to slay the woman before she arrived, but, thankfully for him, it wasn't necessary. He jumped, while the Druid remained calm and still, as Kilgharrah dropped from above, shattering entire trees as he landed between the Blackhand and her pray. The woman had no time to scream before the great dragon crushed her with one mighty paw.

"Again, Merlin, it seems you are in dire need of aid!" Kilgharrah boomed, trying with difficulty to turn around. The clearing was near, but the trees were still confining for a dragon.

"I'm sure your life would be much less interesting without me in it, old friend!"

Merlin's elation was short-lived as the dragon suddenly snarled and hissed. Arrows shot from the longbows of Blackhands could not pierce his scaly hide, but they punched holes through the bronze-coloured membrane of his wings. In moments, the cultists surrounded them all, throwing spears and firing arrows.

"Arise, Emrys. We must leave at once." Finally, the Druid moved to help Merlin stand, and together they made for Kilgharrah's front feet. The warlock cradled the Silver Heart to his chest, and flinched as an arrow shot towards him. To his relief, the Druid had thought to place wards around them, and the quarrel halted several feet from its target before falling uselessly to the ground.

"Seize them!"

Merlin recognized Argus Vane's voice, and turned to see the cult master himself tearing towards them. The warlock quickened his pace, and, once close enough, Kilgharrah was able to pick him and the Druid up in one paw. Projectiles clattered of his belly as he reared on his hind legs, wings spreading wide. With great difficulty, the dragon lifted straight into the air, buffeting the frustrated Blackhands below with a tempest of wind. Soon the night sky was all that was above them, and Kilgharrah flew over the treetops with a roar of triumph, blasting a fiery torrent from his mighty jaws.

* * *

**After all, why not go without a bit of a bang, eh? ;)**

"**If you were waiting for the opportune moment..._that_ was it." ~ Jack Sparrow (Pirates of the Caribbean)**


	19. Of Enlightenment

**Let us see what is up in Camelot.**

_**Waazz-aaaaap! **_**;)**

* * *

~19~ Of Enlightenment

Camelot was in turmoil. The news of the missing king spread like wildfire throughout the city, and no one slept as search parties were formed by specialists and volunteers.

Gwen wasn't part of the searches. She was going for a more back-door approach. She ordered each imprisoned Silverblood out for interrogation, and, one by one, she demanded of them the location of her husband. Without fail, they all insisted that they hadn't the slightest idea, though a few looked to be hiding something.

The third person who revealed the nagging suspicion roiling in their eyes was a red-haired woman who, on four different occasions, asked whether Sir Gwaine was all right. She had been told every time that he was in a stable condition, but it was as though her anxiety kept making her forget.

"I know you suspect something," Gwenevere snapped rudely, as the woman, called Bianca, again claimed that the whereabouts of Arthur were unknown to her. The queen had been wearing her down now for little over an hour, and she was growing increasingly impatient with her lack of cooperation. "You are a terrible liar. Now stop taking me as a fool and tell me where my husband is!"

"I swear, I have no idea!" Bianca sobbed. She, along with the other Silverbloods, had not been tortured for information, but she, too, was growing weary of the interrogation.

Gwen took a deep, cleansing breath, in through her nose and out through her mouth. It was time to change tactics. Striding to the door, she whispered something to the guard outside and then waited patiently in the chair before Bianca, who slumped, also sitting, in the seat in the middle of the room. Gwen hated interrogation, as she had been a victim to it herself, but it was the only way to find and save Arthur, not to mention her missing brother, Elyan.

Nearly fifteen minutes later, Gwen stood to welcome Gwaine into the room. The knight was smiling brilliantly, and he gave an extravagant bow to her, though his face was pained when he straightened.

"My lady," he grunted.

"Sir Gwaine, please, sit here." Gwen manoeuvred the knight into her chair despite his protests, so he sat just before Bianca. "This young lady as been asking about your welfare."

Now that he was before her, the 'young lady' was speechless, and was blushing like a school girl. "I...I—I hope you are well, Gwaine Sir...Sir Gwaine...sir." She flushed all the harder as the knight smiled.

"I'm doing well, sweet pea, though if Gaius dumps anymore painkillers down my throat I may just drown." Now Gwaine looked inquisitively at Gwen, wondering why he was supposed to be there.

The queen stepped forward. "Sir Gwaine, I was just asking Bianca here where the Silverbloods who had avoided arrest may have taken King Arthur."

"Ah. Where _did_ they take him?" Gwaine asked the red-haired woman, but she simply dropped her chin to her chest and refused to make eye contact.

"She won't answer me, but I was hoping, since you _saved her life_, you would be able to coax some answers from her, for the good of us all."

Gwaine became solemn. "I'll see what I can do."

* * *

After Gwen left, Gwaine stood with a pained grunt and dragged his chair closer to Bianca, who stiffened at his approach.

"Hey, Bianca. Are you okay? Have we been treating you fairly enough?"

She said nothing. The knight leaned forward in the chair, as to see her face better.

"Are you hungry? I'm hungry." He straightened as though surprising himself. "So hungry, I could probably eat all the horses in the stables, and then a chicken." As though enunciating his claim, his stomach growled like a bear, and the knight saw Bianca smile briefly in amusement.

_Break the ice_, thought he, refraining the urge to reach over and push a lock of fiery red hair from her face. He sighed. "Listen, Bianca. Arthur, he's a really good man, you know. Best friend I ever had. I once saved his life, if you could imagine it, and in return, he knighted me. His father, Uther, would have had a pickle if he had been in his right mind, yessir!" Gwaine smiled at the thought, but then grew grim once more. "But now Arthur is in danger, and there's nothing I can do because we don't know where he is...You must know _something_, Bianca. _Anything_ would be of use. A name, a region, a bleeding _direction_ – anything that could help us in our search would be greatly appreciated...Bianca, if you only knew King Arthur, you would not be so hesitant."

The Silverblood remained still, but Gwaine could feel a barrier breaking down within her. Finally, she said, "I want to know him. I've seen how he treats his knights and that servant: as though you were all equal. He's like no king I've ever seen. He's...different."

"He's also going to be the best king Albion has ever known," Gwaine said. "I can tell, simply by the way he carries himself. His will is strong and his heart stronger, but right now he needs our help. And _you_ can help him, Bianca."

There was a pause of nearly a minute, but Gwaine was content to wait until the puppy came to him. Then, Bianca heaved a breath.

"There are others, those you have already fought, called the Blackhands. They are like us, but then, _not_ like us. Captain Baldwin somehow sent word to them, and by now, a Silverblood will have already captured Arthur..."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Elyan was near collapse by the time the battlements of Camelot's towers came into view. The sight, so welcome in dawn's embrace, encouraged the knight back into a brisk jog – no amount of encouragement could force him back into a run.

There were flurries of activity within the city as the knight hastened through the gates. He could only suppose that they were preparing search parties, and he ignored them as he fought his way to the citadel, where his sister, Gwenevere, was no doubt in control.

He was hailed, though in surprise, by others as he reached the Main Hall. Sir Percival met his stride.

"Elyan! Where the hell have you been? Where's Arthur?"

"Not now," the knight gasped. "Where's my sister? I don't wish to tell the story more than once; there's no time."

"She's questioning the Silverbloods. This way."

Percival led him to where Gwen was waiting outside the interrogation room, and the queen gasped before rushing to embrace her brother.

"Oh, Elyan, I've been so worried! What happened? The reports say you just disappeared!"

"I will explain. Is there a Silverblood in there?" Without waiting for an answer, Elyan pushed the door open and entered, to stop as he saw Gwaine and a red-haired woman looked to him in surprise. "Gwaine! You're up!"

"Hello, Elyan. It's nice to see you, too. Bianca, this is Elyan. Elyan, Bianca."

Shy, the Silverblood nodded lightly yet politely, but the knight was glaring.

"You. You and your kind have brought nothing but trouble here."

"Elyan—"

"Your treachery and betrayal are unforgivable! Our king forged a deal yet your leader sought to destroy it for his own sick games!"

"_Elyan_—"

"I await the day I see you all hang and burn! I—"

"Elyan! Listen to yourself!" Gwaine roared, standing up and shoving the other knight back several paces. Then he gasped and staggered, falling back into the chair, face contorted in pain.

Elyan looked horrified with himself. "Saints alive! I'm so sorry, I've no idea what came over me. I was just...so _angry_..." Gwen put an arm around his shoulders as Bianca touched Gwaine's.

The ruffian knight glared up at Gwen's brother. "Explain yourself."

"I will after _she_ does."

Bianca glanced furtively at Elyan, sheepish and ashamed. She gave a shuddering breath. "As I was saying to Sir Gwaine, Captain Baldwin had sent word to those who were not captured, in hopes that they had met up with our separated kin, the Blackhands. I do not know what word he sent, exactly, for the knowledge was supposed to be just between Baldwin and his second lieutenant, Tiberius, but I overheard them talking."

"How did he send word?" asked Gwen, as calm as she could.

"There was a Silverblood put into employment here, a youth called Frederico, in the kitchens. In a way, he was like a spy. He was supposed to leave Camelot and search for the Blackhands if anything like this should happen."

"So Baldwin, or, more accurately, Frederico, was asking the loose Silverbloods and Blackhands for aid?"

"I suppose so. I'm not sure how they expected to get us out, other than using Arthur as a hostage, I guess." Bianca looked to Elyan. "I think you should fill in here. You'll know what actually happened to his majesty."

Swallowing his distaste for the Silverblood, Elyan obliged, recounting what he could remember after blacking out during the search for Merlin.

"I don't know how it happened, but the door of the cage suddenly broke – nearly flying off its hinges! – and I managed to escape. I would have stayed, but what could I do? I was being pursued and...Arthur had turned..." The knight felt so ashamed of himself, and he couldn't look anyone in the eye.

He could feel the horror and disgust radiating from the others like heat with the knowledge he gave them, towards him or not he wasn't sure. They were speechless, even the Silverblood, which baffled him. Wasn't pitting werewolf against werewolf a pastime for her kind? The Blackhands made it seem so.

"I don't know what became of him. I just knew I had to get help."

"Rowan?" Bianca asked. "Did you say Rowan was the name of the other werewolf?"

"Yes," Elyan replied flatly, then blinked when he saw her blanch and tears spring in her eyes. "Do you know the name?"

She nodded, hands clenching until her knuckles were white. "That...what happened...it wasn't...it _isn't_..." Tears fell freely from her cheeks, and her shoulders trembled. "Those traitors!" she suddenly shrieked, startling everyone.

Elyan stared at her, confused. "Isn't...isn't that what Baldwin planned? He tried having Arthur killed before."

"_No!_ I mean, _yes_, but..._that's not what we're about!_" Bianca screamed, standing and pacing in furious circles. She let loose a long and vulgar stream of foul curses that made even Gwaine blush. "The Silverbloods would never do such a thing! Not for _anyone_, especially Rowan! When Baldwin finds out..."

Though everyone was appalled by the gory vows and rude cursing she vented, they let Bianca rant until she ran out of breath. When she finally stood still, heaving in gusts of air and steaming like a kettle, Gwaine straightened slowly and led her back to the chair.

"So what do we do?" asked Percival, silent through the whole exchange until then. "Go find them? They may hold Arthur hostage, if he's still alive."

"What choice do we have? Elyan, do you think you could find their camp again?" Gwaine turned to the other knight, but he was shaking his head.

"No. It was too dark. I can lead you to the right road, because that's how I returned in the first place, but the abandoned outpost was deep in the trees."

"Would Baldwin know?"

This time the question was aimed at Bianca, who shook her head as well. "I don't think so. Not if the Blackhands have betrayed us."

"We have to try," said Elyan, squaring his shoulders. "I left Arthur behind to summon aid, and I _mean_ to get it."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

In the thrill of the flight, Merlin had entirely forgotten about his twisted ankle. When Kilgharrah finally put him and the Druid, who called himself Bowen, down on the ground, the warlock made to stand, only to gasp and immediately fall over, muffling a curse.

"Bloody badgers!" he grumbled, lifting his pant leg to see the swollen joint, injured from the animal burrow.

"Emrys, if I may?" Bowen knelt and passed his hand over Merlin's ankle, murmuring a few gentle words of Healing as he did so. The servant sighed with relief as the purple hue faded and the swelling fell, and the pain was banished for good.

"Thank you..."

Bowen had already stood and turned away. "Welcome to Mistwood, Emrys. Welcome to my home."

The warlock stood, tentatively at first but then with confidence as his ankle held him, and looked down the small hill to the settlement scattered amongst the pines. In the dawn light, he could see coloured tents and smouldering cook fires. Several people, young and old, were emerging from their tents, but were not alarmed to see a great dragon standing so near to their homes. In fact, they seemed mildly interested. Merlin noticed that even the children were holding themselves in dignified solemnity, but could also tell that, being children, they were eager to see Kilgharrah up close.

"Will they be all right with my coming here?" asked Merlin of Bowen as the Druid stepped down the hill. "I'm still, you know..."

"You are welcome, as anyone is welcome, to share our bread and rest in our beds so long as you don't mean anyone or anything harm. Come, please, meet my family."

At first the Druids seemed coyly wary of Merlin, and only watched from several paces away as the warlock was introduced to Bowen's lady (the servant was surprised that no one married each other), named Marideth, and his two children. Then as Marideth smiled and embraced Merlin in a warm, motherly hug, the ice melted and the Druids became boisterous, especially the kids. It was as though the affects of waking at so early a time were inconsequential, and many began preparing food for the day, while others came to meet Merlin themselves.

After countless introductions, Bowen managed to save the warlock and fish him out of the swollen crowd of inquisitive Druids, leading him back closer to the edge of the grove and to the clearing. There, a tent, a bit distanced from the rest, lay silent, a fire with peculiar emerald flames guarding the entrance. Kilgharrah, now able to join them because they were so close to the clearing, settled down just by the back of the tent. As a few minutes passed and nothing happened, the dragon amused himself by blowing smoke rings, which the Druid children who had followed him gasped and giggled at.

Merlin and Bowen stood prone five paces from the green fire, unable to see into the void of the tent. After several more minutes passed and there was no movement from either Bowen or the canvas, the warlock opened his mouth to ask a question, only for the Druid to raise his hand, not rudely, but to ensure silence.

Somewhere in the distance, a musician began to tap on a hand drum, creating an enticing rhythm that filled the dawn, to quickly be joined by a flirtatious flute of some kind. Merlin bobbed his head lightly to the song, losing himself in his thoughts and simply enjoying himself.

The sun had risen high to warm the air by the time a woman finally emerged from the tent. Her hood was down, revealing black dreadlocks that framed an olive-skinned, stern face. Her eyes were black and had the depth of a hundred years. She was pretty, considering the forest life she led, but that wasn't why Merlin was so captivated by her.

"You're the one I saw in my dreams!" he blurted, and she smiled, exiling the grim seriousness her features once portrayed.

"Indeed I am, Emrys. Welcome to Mistwood. I've been waiting for you for a long time."

* * *

**You probably don't remember the strange dreams Merlin had, right? There was the oddly familiar glade that he kept running from and all that. It's been a long time since they've been mentioned...**

******And no, Mistwood doesn't exist in the series. I just made it up.**

"**Your quality will be known among your enemies, before ever you meet them, my friend." ~ Imad (Kingdom of Heaven.)**


	20. Always the Story

**Heeyyy :)**

* * *

~20~ Always the Story

Argus Vane raged inwardly as he regarded the sombre cultists standing before them. On one side stood the Blackhands who failed to recapture the knight of Camelot. The other side were those who were too slow to stop the marked servant from stealing the Silver Heart. In less than an hour, they had once again lost everything they had fought for.

He studied their remorseful, pitiful faces, wishing that he could flog each and every one of them himself. But he knew that that would accomplish nothing on so many levels.

He turned away from them and climbed up the rickety tower stars to his chambers above. There, Claudius the soothsayer was waiting for him, along with his best warriors.

"We set out at dawn," Vane barked. "We will track down the Pendragon king, or else surround Camelot and wait until he comes out.

"The infected servant will not stay away forever," he continued. "We will catch him and reclaim the Silver Heart if it costs us our lives. Do you understand?"

The cultists nodded silently, and Vane waved them away.

"Do this, and you will all be rewarded. If not adequately from me, then from Nocturn himself. Now go. Ready your men."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

As was custom, Bowen and Merlin were bidden to sit by the fire as the Druid shaman prepared them a meal. She placed a pot on a rack over the pit of green flames and proceeded to boil water. On a small table near the tent, she took several herbs from different piles and placed them in a tea pot.

Merlin couldn't help but stare at the emerald flames, attracted to them like a moth.

"You're wondering why my cook fire is green, correct, Emrys?"

The warlock jumped sheepishly at the shaman's question. "Actually, yes. Is it hotter? Does it have magical properties?"

"No. It's just green." The shaman brought him and Bowen a plate of crumbly cheese, bread and two strawberries each. She also offered food for Kilgharrah, but the dragon snorted smoke in amusement and declined politely.

The shaman waited patiently for Bowen and Merlin to finish, then the warlock asked, "What's your name?"

"Names are powerful things, Emrys. You will do well to remember that." The look the woman gave him made him shift uncomfortably in his seat. "They call me Gabriela now. Just Gabriela."

"And why did you want to see me, Gabriela? Some prophecy or something? Destiny's plan? That's always the story."

"It is usually the story, isn't it? But not this time. This time, you are stuck in a situation that you can't get out of yourself."

"Yeah. I figured _that_ much."

Gabriela studied him with her black eyes, the sternness back in her features now that she wasn't smiling. "The mark of the beast is strong on you. You have turned once before, yes?"

Merlin nodded numbly, suddenly unable to meet her gaze.

"You need not be ashamed, only cautious."

"Cautious?"

The shaman busied herself with preparing the tea before answering. With her back turned, she said, "I can See the wolf in you, circling you, thirsting to get out and hunt."

"You can See it? Like the Silverbloods? What does it look like?"

"Yes, Emrys. I can See like them, because I _am_ one of them. As for your other question, the beast within takes the shape of a great wolf, transparent like a guardian spirit, only its intentions couldn't be blacker." She came and sat down again, staring slightly to the side of Merlin as though studying a ghost at his shoulder. "It paces around you, occasionally scratching at something none, not even I, can See. However, it is strangely tame."

"_You're_ a Silverblood?"

"I said that, yes."

Merlin shook his head, incredulous. "But..._how?_ And why are you here, with the Druids?"

"What is with the sudden ridiculous questions, Emrys? I am what I am and I'm here because I choose to be. What you should be asking is, Why are _you_ here?"

"I...kind of already asked that."

"Well, is it not obvious? You're here for a cure."

Merlin didn't even bother to feel elation. "Is that so." Gabriela lifted an eyebrow.

"Are you not relieved?

"I would be, only it's not going to be easy to get a cure, is it? I'll probably have to cross dangerous terrain and face vile monsters and hope I get back in time to save Arthur before the stroke of midnight, because that's always the story."

A deep _ruk_ _ruk_ sound came from deep within Kilgharrah's throat, and it took a moment for the others to realize that he was chuckling.

"Your pessimism is understandably wrought, young warlock," the dragon chortled. "But you need not despair this time. The cure is in your hands."

Merlin glanced down at his empty palms, clasped on his lap.

"_Figuratively speaking_, Merlin. By the First Egg, I wonder if destiny did right by its choice." Kilgharrah chuckled again, proof of his joshing.

"So then, what do you mean?" asked the warlock, frowning. "Is there a spell that I'm strong enough to use?"

"In a way...no," replied Gabriela, who passed around steaming mugs of tea. Merlin gratefully took a sip, relishing the taste of sweat honey on his tongue. "It's not so much as a spell than a ritual. You know the properties of the Silver Heart?"

Merlin started. The Heart! He'd totally forgotten about the animal figurine, now recognized as a wolf, which he had placed in his shirt for safekeeping. Now he pulled it out, half of it warm from being against his skin. Emerald streaks reflected off the silver metal, flickering with the fire.

"Aah, there it is. It's been many years since I've laid eyes on it last. May I...?"

The servant handed it over willingly, but just as it left his fingers, he became suddenly very uneasy. He held his arm out even as Gabriela brought the Heart closer to inspect it, then as the feeling passed, he snatched his hand back. Ignoring the strange looks he received from Bowen and Kilgharrah, Merlin took a deep breath, abruptly realizing that he had been unable to smell like a hound ever since he had touched the Heart the night before. Now, the tea in the mug before him was nearly overwhelming, the concoction of herbs and honey filling his nostrils as thickly as water. However, it was easy to ignore the tea and focus on the sap seeping from the tree five paces away, or the rainy, metallic odour emitting from Kilgharrah's tough scales.

He was watching the silent squirrel he hadn't noticed before he caught its musky-scented fur high above in a tree, when he realized that Gabriela was staring, not right at him, but more through him, and figured that she must be Seeing the wolf within him.

"Remarkable," she was saying, frowning. "As soon as I took this from you, the wolf began to fight at invisible bonds. Here, take it back."

Merlin grasped the Heart around the stomach, and the tea, sap, scales, and squirrel were no longer detectable.

"And just like that, tame as a old dog," Gabriela muttered. She finally met Merlin's gaze. "The wonders created by the Archons of the Ancient Kingdom can never be truly fathomed, not in this life, nor, perhaps, the next."

"This was made by a god?"

"No, Archons are not gods, nor are gods Archons. They are the beings of a bygone age, once as alive as you and I now, but that is a tale for another time." She indicated at the Silver Heart with a nod. "They are gone, but their legacies and their creations live on, as well as that which controls them. This is one such thing."

Merlin looked down at the small figurine, the incomprehension that it had once been in the hands of an ancient Archon swallowing his mind. "How can this be?"

"What do you mean, Emrys?"

"The Archons lived thousands of years ago, before even the dragons. Kilgharrah said werewolves rivalled their age – are werewolves older than dragons?"

"There is only so much knowledge the world gives freely, Emrys, and even less is given without great reluctance. I cannot say how old werewolves are, only that an Archon had also made this Silver Heart, so as to control them."

"So..._someone_ would have had to write down what it does, or we wouldn't know about it today."

"That is done easily enough."

"Then...it...It was found by the Silverbloods?" Merlin still felt confused. "Would it not be hidden away? Something so old and made by something older can't have been just lying around."

"Can't it?" The shaman finally smiled again at Merlin's awestruck expression. Then she patted his knee with a hand darkened by dots of skin paint. "It shall be another story for a later date. For now, we must find a way to banish the beast from your soul."

"And from Arthur."

Smile widening, Gabriela inclined her head. "Of course, the Pendragon king as well."

Though not entirely appeased, Merlin sat straighter in the stool, and studied the Heart more closely. It was intricately made, with even hairs carefully carved into the likeness of a rough but healthy wolf. Its head was slightly tilted back, as through readying itself to howl to the moon. He sighed.

"It's not going to be easy, is it? Probably have to sacrifice and arm and a leg to get it, because that's—"

"_Always the story,_" chanted the others in perfect unison. They grinned at Merlin's indignant expression, even Bowen.

* * *

******Isn't it though? I mean honestly! Always midnight...**

"**Pelagius told me once: 'There is no worse death than the end of hope.'" ~ Arthur (King Arthur)**


	21. Let's Ride

**Finally, back to His Royal Pratness—I mean Highness.**

* * *

~21~ Let's Ride

Arthur gasped as what felt like a thousand glass teeth raked down his back. He was lying face down at the edge of a forest stream, his right arm limp in the icy water and rocks and twigs digging into his front. Grunting, he pushed himself onto his hands and knees, shuddering as agony rippled throughout his whole body.

_What...happened...?_

He forced himself to sit back on his heels, and glanced down at his bare chest. Gashes that could only have been made by some savage beast opened his skin in multiple places, now black with dried blood. Two in particular had taunt, raw-looking skin burning around them, as though infected. It hurt to breathe.

Flashes of memory taunted his inner eye as he cupped water in his hands and drank deeply. The water was sweet and he drank until his stomach ached. Then he tried as hard as he could to recall what had happened before he turned, for that was what could only have happened. Closing his eyes, he crawled backwards until his spine lay against the mossy face of a boulder, trying to ignore the pain.

Like playful, flickering flames—there one moment and gone the next—Arthur remembered.

A Silverblood, swathed in black, attacking him with the burning silver dagger and giving him the raw wounds that now burned in his chest and stomach...There was a knight, Elyan, in a large cage, surrounded by black-swathed people...He remembered yelling something, and pushing Elyan away...Then...then...nothing.

_For the love of Camelot, what have I done?_

Did he killed Elyan? Worse still, did he _eat_ him?

_No, no! Anything but that!_

There were weapons in that cage, he suddenly recalled. The knight would have fought. Perhaps won his freedom?

The king could only hope, and pray.

His many scabs, scattered all over his body, split and bled as he went to stand. A few on the back of his neck were particularly vicious. Shoving down the pain in annoyance, Arthur began to follow the water downstream, wincing as his tender feet pressed down on twigs and sharp rocks. In less than an hour, as he expected, the brook joined a rushing river, which he followed in turn. It wasn't long before he came across an old fishing shack, which he cautiously approached and checked for occupation before letting himself inside. Glad that the inhabitants were out, the king helped himself to the clothes in the rickety, rotting wardrobe, trying to ignore the heavy scent of fish and mud that wafted from them in waves.

Frowning, he stopped himself from putting them on, then checked the rest of the shack. There were no other clothes in the place, so he had to content himself with those that were.

Ten minutes later, he emerged with a shirt that revealed his stomach and elbows, pants that nearly reached his shins, and a hat that was too small for a child.

_Who the hell lives here?_ He thought, bewilderingly disgruntled. _A bleeding _dwarf?

He left the hat on the porch railing, then went back inside and found a long coat, which almost reached past his calves. He didn't even bother trying the boots. Grumbling, he made note of the location, as to return what he had taken, and then continued down the river.

A water mill soon came into view, and, ignoring the estranged looks he received as he crashed his way through the last of the bushes, wearing clothes fit for a gnome and looking like he had wrestled with an angry bear, he managed to convince the man of the business to part with a horse and cart. The man's eldest son agreed to accompany Arthur back to Camelot, seeing as he knew the way and was eager to get away from work.

Once within the cities walls, near two hours later, Arthur had the youth do him one last favour, promising him enough gold to feed his family for the next three winters. Though sceptical (for how could this ragged hermit have enough to feed himself for even a day), the miller's son obliged in fetching better-fitting attire from a nearby tailor, which Arthur donned gratefully. Then he told the youth to follow him, and led him to the citadel.

Not ten minutes later, the young man staggered from the castle with the gold promised, eyes wide in the knowledge that he had been in the presence and the servitude of his king, the oath sworn to never tell _anyone_ of the state Arthur was found in burned into his memory.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

It wasn't until several hours later that Gaius deemed himself satisfied and finally stopped fluttering around Arthur like a mother hen. The king felt tight with all the stiff bandages holding him together, but the pain had been numbed, and for that, he was appreciative.

"Thank you, Gaius. What would we do without you?"

"It's an honour, sire, as always." The physician was smiling, but it was taunt. Arthur looked away, guilty.

"I'm sorry we couldn't find Merlin."

"Me, too. I can only hope that he finds his own way home safely."

The king nodded, then stared at the door with a heavy feeling of trepidation. "I'm not going to be able to leave without being surrounded by guards. I just wish to speak with Gwen—"

"Alllll _right_, you soggy lot! Get out of here by order of the king! Go on, move!"

The voice was only slightly muffled by the door, but it was clear that Gwaine's voice was the one responsible for the rumble and ramble that emerged from outside the chambers. It was as though the knight had been waiting for a cue, and Arthur had just given it.

"Go on, ladies. You're using up all the air in here. Get lost, I say!"

Arthur chuckled as at last all fell still outside, and then Gwaine burst in, a smile to dazzle the sun on his dashing features. On his heels were Percival and Leon, no less amused by their companion's beneficial efforts to clear the hall.

"You royal _goon!_ Gave us quite the scare, you did." Gwaine ignored the arm Arthur held out to clasp and instead gave him a big, brotherly hug, crushing the king's chest and forcing the air from his lungs. "We need to find you a babysitter," he added as he released him. "Perhaps lock you up somewhere."

Arthur smiled through a pained grimace, then winced as a newcomer came from behind and patted him on the back. "No more fur. That's good."

"Elyan! I didn't eat you!"

The knight grinned. "Yep, and thank you for not doing so."

"To celebrate, mates!" crowed Gwaine, throwing an arm around Percival and another on Leon. "Down to the _Rising Sun_ we go! Last week, I challenged Merlin to a..." The knight trailed off awkwardly, and Arthur bit his lip as he looked at something on the ceiling.

"Now's not the time, Gwaine," said the king, coldly calm. "We aren't out of black waters yet."

"He's right," put in Elyan. He looked to his lord. "We have important information for you, sire. It's best we fill you in on the way."

"On the way where?"

"To meet Bianca."

* * *

The knights said nothing as they let Arthur chew on the new knowledge in silence.

"So this Silver Heart...It controls werewolves?"

The Silverblood, Bianca, nodded shyly and scooted closer to Gwaine. Arthur leaned towards her, not to intimidate her but to impress the height of his urgency on her. "Is it in your kins' possession?"

"Not anymore, by Sir Elyan's account," she replied softly. "The Blackhands have it now."

"Are you certain? How would I have escaped, then?"

Bianca looked confused. "I don't know. It doesn't make any sense. They wouldn't have let you go – the only logical explanation I can assume is that you were broken out."

"But by whom? If it's someone from Camelot, they would have stepped forward by now, one would think."

The red-haired woman shifted in her seat, then stiffened. "Sophia."

"What?"

Bianca didn't reply at first. Arthur let her think for a while before clearing his throat impatiently. Her tone grew stronger, and more excited, as her thoughts came to light.

"Sophia was one of the few who avoided arrest. She would have been the one who kidnapped you on Baldwin's orders, but the captain would never have done so if he knew what the Blackhands where going to do to you and Rowan, nor would Sophia have followed them."

"Rowan was the other werewolf, right? The one that bit me?"

"Yes, and, once, a legendary leader of the Silverbloods. If Sophia remained true to her kind, she would have done something to stop the fighting. She would have broken Elyan free, and then, somehow, you."

"But no one touched the cage door when it opened," protested Elyan, frowning. "It was as though it were by magic."

"No Silverblood has the powers like a mage or sorcerer," Bianca replied quietly, refusing to meet the knight's gaze for a while. Then she stared right at Arthur. "You have powerful friends, Arthur Pendragon. They would have saved your knight and then taken the Heart, for you wouldn't have gotten far if it was still in Blackhand possession."

Sitting back, the king pondered her words. Who could have taken the Heart? A sorcerer? A warrior? A simple thief? He couldn't think of any allies that may be wandering in the woods, other than perhaps the Druids. In any case, he owed whoever saved him an unforgettable debt.

"So...how do we get the Heart, then?" asked Leon, studying a knot in the wooden table. "In the wrong hands, a man could slaughter an entire village with a werewolf. Not to mention that he could control _you_," he added, nodding at Arthur. "This wouldn't be such an issue, for we can kill Rowan, but we can't kill you."

"Does the Heart do anything else?" asked Gwaine gently of Bianca. The Silverblood shrugged, her frown spawned from the thought of killing Rowan fading.

"Most of us were kept in the dark of the Heart's properties. We don't know where it was even found, or what it truly is. You should ask Baldwin. After he's heard of what the Blackhands have done, then he'll give you everything he knows."

Arthur did not hesitate. He ordered the Silverblood captain down into the interrogation room, then ordered food and drink for both of his captives.

When Baldwin entered, he managed to hide the haggard look and put on one of solemn dignity, which he held as he was sat at the table before the food that he pointedly ignored. Then he was told of the Blackhands' treachery, and a hurricane would have had difficulty matching his fury. He looked to be trying his best to remain impassive, but he trembled like a wet rat and muscles twitched in his jaw and near his eye.

"Argus Vane," the captain toned, rage jolting his words, referring to the Blackhand cult master. "I should have known he would be up to no good. His father was a slippery one, and sour grapes never tumble far from the vine."

"Baldwin," said Arthur, voice low, "we can turn this all around. Do you know a way to get the Heart back? Who had it last?"

The Silverblood breathed heavily through his nose, a maddened bull, but he managed to retain a calm composure. "Benjamin, our priest, who wasn't captured like the rest of us, was last to be its Keeper, but he would no longer be in possession of it. Vane would have seized it from him, whether he was willing to relinquish it or not. However..." The captain paused, though for extra thought or for dramatic effect it wasn't known. "There is one man, Remus, who may be able to..._detect_ its presence – he was in charge of it in this country for many years."

"So he's a Blackhand?" asked Percival, who was standing in a corner, arms crossed.

"Yes, unfortunately. His blood runs strong but his family had decided to remain here, as guardians of Rowan."

"So he, Rowan, is the real reason why half of your kind remained in Albion?" Arthur demanded, not unkindly, but disgruntled that he had been lied to, again.

"Not exactly, no. My father, along with a few others, including Vane's and Remus', were told that Rowan was still alive, but the rest were kept in the dark. The next generation swore to tell no one until a chance to legitimately cure Rowan became imminent, but it's an oath I have no choice but to break." He didn't looked pleased, but it was true that he had precious few options. "I knew Rowan lived, and I held contact with Vane to keep tabs on his progress of finding a cure using the Silver Heart. Then word stopped coming, as though he had spontaneously forgotten about us in Italia. I knew something was up, then." The look of an angry ocean maelstrom passed over his already dark expression. "I never trusted Vane's father, even as a young child. I should never have trusted his son."

"Rowan must have been a good man for your kind to watch him for a hundred years," said Arthur quietly.

"By the stories, you would think him a legend yourself."

Arthur rested his chin on his knuckles, and chewed a nail thoughtfully. Then he shook himself. "Well, we can talk of his greatness later. Right now, we need to find the man who cared for the Heart. Where is he?"

"We left him with Silverbloods to guard him in an abandoned abbey several miles from here," said Baldwin. He had a new air now, as though telling the truth for once was setting him free of a heavy burden. "We had captured him and the Heart after your servant smashed his waggon with the beast, with Rowan, inside. Until now, we had no idea how far Vane had misused and betrayed such a duty, that the cultists were simply finding easy gold by sacking villages and using a monster to terrify people into submission."

"So he's still alive, then. Where is this abbey?"

"Northeast from here, at the top of a hill."

"Saint Peter's Abbey," blurted Percival suddenly. "I know the place."

Arthur stood and did not protest when Baldwin did the same. "Then we shall get this Remus and find out what he knows. It may not be much, but anything is useful now."

"You changed last night?" asked Baldwin of the king, who nodded grimly, albeit sternly. "Then there is a chance that we have a few days until the next transformation, by which we should find a cure to make this easier; not everyone changes back to a human after the second turn."

"In any case, we have little time," announced Gwaine, also standing, all flamboyance gone. "I will prepare the horses."

Arthur waved him down. "No, Gwaine. You stay. You are still injured."

The knight growled. "Just try and stop me." The fire in his eyes proved to Arthur that even wild elephants would have no chance of doing so. Bianca tried not to show the admiration in her face as she looked up to him, but failed.

"Let's ride," said Leon.

* * *

**You know the worst part of adolescent life is? Waiting for a company to get back to you ****on a job application -_- Very nerve-wracking.**

**And so concludes the Random Comment Programme of this evening. Tune in tomorrow when we discuss the fact that bull kelp is not a plant!**

******"Anyway, you need some form of intelligence on this sort of mission...quest...thing!" ~ Pippin Took (The Lord of the Rings)**


	22. The Shrine of an Age Past

~22~ The Shrine of an Age Past

"So, how do we go about this?" asked Merlin, hastening after the shaman, Gabriela. The steady thump of Kilgharrah's massive wings throbbed in the air overhead, but then he turned west, and vanished from view. Though he knew he could trust her, Merlin didn't like being alone with Gabriela, and listened regretfully as the pounding rhythm became too far to detect.

"The cure for the werewolf has been sought for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. We have but a few days if we wish to keep ourselves safe – who knows how difficult it could be if you turn before we cure you, _if_ we can cure you after you've turned."

The warlock remained in a humbled silence and held the Silver Heart close to his chest. Ever since learning its true potentials, it was like a buoy in his raging sea of troubles, and he never surrendered it to anyone.

"To answer your question," she continued, "we must seek advice from a more..._experienced_ being, one that may or may not listen to our pleas. This way." Gabriela abruptly changed direction and led the way down into a steep-sided ravine, from which tendrils of ivy and cushions of moss were in great abundance. Moist leaves shuffled underfoot, releasing a rich, loamy aroma that calmed Merlin's spiking senses. The air was cool between the narrow, damp walls of rock, and it was refreshing after the taxing trek through the afternoon heat.

The trail wound like a roiling snake, sometimes splitting off or joining up with another, but always walled by jagged rock. Merlin was reminded of the fabled Labyrinth of the Minotaur, and he unwillingly glanced over his shoulder as if expecting the half man, half bull monster to come charging around the bend behind them.

"Is it far now?" asked the servant, anxious to break the deepening silence. Even the birds sought other places to gift the land with their song.

"What is needed is never far, because it is needed."

Merlin frowned in bewildered confusion. "That doesn't make any—"

"Hush now. We approach."

Looking past the shaman, Merlin saw that the trail opened to a wider area, a junction of sorts.

_The eye of the Labyrinth_, he thought in awe, as he stepped into what looked to be an open shrine. Two other paths led off to undetermined directions. Aged trees above the ravine junction cast the space in shadow and chilled the air. Merlin glanced around curiously, and was suddenly surprised when his foot hit what felt like smooth rock. Looking down, he realized that it wasn't rock, but, in fact, was some kind of metal, faintly gold with twists of silver. He expanded his view and saw that the whole floor was a circular mosaic, difficult to see completely because of the leaves, moss, and other debris left by the neglect of time.

"Where are we?" the warlock asked, slightly dazed. There was an arcane air to the place, as though he was in the presence of something incomprehensibly old.

"This, Emrys, is the Shrine of Larentia, Guardian of the Wood." As Gabriela swept an arm and stepped to one side, Merlin was able to see the alter and stone statue standing above it. The alter was once covered by a cloth of silver silk, but it had long since worn to mere shreds, which wavered in the light breeze. There were tarnished candle sticks, the yellow wax now but stubs with little more than an hour's worth of light. The statue, standing sentinel, was of a woman, kind-faced yet stern, as though she could laugh at anything but would not tolerate any impudence or malevolence. She wore animal skins, stitched together like a forest-dwelling hunter. In one hand she held a longbow, while the other cupped a baby bird, whose head was tilted back in eternal song.

"Larentia the Archon?" Merlin breathed. Though it wasn't really a question, Gabriela nodded solemnly.

"One of the oldest and one of the last to fall dormant when the Ancient Kingdom met its end, making way for the Old Religion. Her worshippers were strong and many, and had continued her simple rituals until just a few decades ago. She might as well have been a goddess for her influence and importance to the world."

"What did she do?"

"Is it not clear in her name? She was the protector of the woods, a guardian of the forest and all its inhabitants. There was once a time when a human could not hunt in her domain or even cut down a tree without her permission. She was usually very lenient, for it was only natural that a man must eat as well, no? If his intentions, however, were to hunt for the sole purpose of gaining a trophy for his mantlepiece, then he may have difficulty acquiring what he sought, and could even find himself lost for a very long time, time enough to reconsider his ways."

"I know you said they weren't gods—Archons, I mean—but the more you speak of them, the more they sound like revered deities."

"What are gods, other than humankind's desperation to discover and explain the world and all its wonders?"

"You are a non-believer, then?"

"I believe what I see, and I have never seen a god. Have you?"

Gabriela was not facing the warlock, but Merlin could feel the weight of her question as though she were burdening him with it in her gaze. He brushed past the expectant air, and put confidence behind the words of his answer.

"People need something to believe in, whether their heart's truly in it or not."

"...Fair enough, warlock."

A prolonged silence followed the touchy exchange, and, having learned that asking what they were doing would not speed up the process, Merlin busied himself with studying the circular floor. It was difficult to see properly.

Shuffling through his memories, he prepared to incant a spell that would clear away all of the debris, but the words halted on his tongue. It was an inscrutable urge, but he had the sudden inclination to dispose of the mess by hand. Was it some subconscious desire to ensure that he was respectful to the Archon he so desperately required knowledge from? He wasn't sure.

Gabriela said nothing as the servant got on his hands and knees and proceeded to brush away the mouldy leaves and spongy moss scattered across the floor. He made small piles and then disposed of them in the paths leading to the shrine, as the ravine walls were too high to throw over. Bit by damp bit, he removed that which covered what was once a respected and worshipped ground, and as the day wore on, he felt aches in his knees and decided to take a break by pulling the ivy and moss from the alter and statue of Larentia.

It took time, but eventually the shrine was a vague reflection of its former glory, by Merlin's reckoning. He dusted moist soil from his pants and admired his handiwork from one of the paths, finally able to distinguish the pattern of the floor.

Again, he was reminded of a labyrinth, for it was a circular maze beginning in the middle and spiralling outwards. The groves were dark while the walls were silver and gold. Merlin wondered why that was so, but then, he knew so little of the enigmatic Archons; he thought it best to wait for answers to come.

Gabriela had not watched so much as waited as the warlock rejuvenated the shrine, but when Merlin came to stand beside her in front of the alter, she nodded in approval, saying nothing.

A crow flew by overhead, cackling. A fox barked in triumph as it rooted out its prey. Far in the distance, an elk keened.

And still, there was no reaction from the shaman or the shrine.

Merlin was beginning to feel restless. If dusk fell before the Archon responded to their presence, if she chose to at all, there was every chance that he may lose a fight with the werewolf within and be forced to relinquish control. He had the Silver Heart with him, but what if it wasn't enough? Gabriela would be helpless without it with her, and he was on the verge of giving it to her when she looked up, to the opening of the ravine. Merlin followed her gaze, and had to rein in a gasp.

A stag, proud, with a full rack of antlers, stood staring down at them fearlessly. For several moments, no one moved; Merlin didn't even breathe. Finally, Gabriela curtsied to the beast, and the servant bowed with her, though he wasn't sure why. When they straightened, the stag had not shifted, but it seemed to regard them with a different bearing, almost as though it was waiting expectantly for something.

"We come in peace, brother," toned Gabriela formally, like would speak to to an equal.

The creature did not respond, of course, other than to blink its great, intelligent eyes and flick an ear back, as though dislodging a pestering fly. Then, with barely a sound, it turned its head and its body followed on stocky legs, and it vanished from view.

Again, the world became one with silence.

Gabriela didn't face him, but she seemed to be reading Merlin's mind. "You have questions, Emrys, many questions. Now is the time to ask them."

Where to start? "What was that? How could the stag have understood you? Was it a servant of Larentia?"

"It a way, yes, but 'servant' is a strong word. Larentia does not believe in servitude. Not in the forest world."

Merlin withdrew into himself as he sought his next question. There were many, but he prioritized them just in case time was growing short. "You said you wanted to speak with Larentia. How can you? I thought the Archons were dormant."

"Dormant does not mean dead. Merely...unreachable."

"That doesn't really answer my question."

It was then that Gabriela finally looked at him, gently, but warning him against rudeness. "Like I said this morning, Emrys, that little silver animal statue has more powers than we can fully comprehend and appreciate, even if we devoted to it a lifetime of study."

Almost unconsciously, Merlin brought out the Heart from where he had stored it in his shirt, and stared at it.

"It will allow us to speak through the barrier between our world and theirs safely, without releasing what shouldn't be back into our domain. At least, that's the theory."

"_Theory?_"

"Hush. I sense...she approaches..."

All Merlin sensed approach was the wind. In increasing agitation, he had no choice but to force himself to wait once more. The air chilled as dusk stalked up on them, but Gabriela seemed unfazed.

_What if I turn?_ Merlin thought in alarm. _What if I can't keep my mind even with the Heart? I must give it to her._

He had nearly reached out to tug her sleeve to alert her when he felt eyes on him. Whether or not it was the monster within him that perked its ears at the detection of others, he didn't know, or care. But he couldn't help but jump when he saw a figure move from one of the paths of the ravine, into the shrine. It was hunched over, and moved fast enough to tie a tortoise in a race. Ragged, faded brown monk robes covered it from head to toe, its hooded head bowed.

Merlin shifted uneasily. He was perturbed, realizing that something moving incredibly slow towards him was about as unsettling as something moving uncannily fast.

The closer the figure stepped into the shrine, the more he could hear its wheezing breath, as though it were sick with some chest disease and its lungs were failing. Its pace seemed almost pained. The warlock figured that this must be because it was elderly. Very elderly.

Merlin held his ground even when the hooded figure continued to approach him. He resisted the urge to step back when it finally stopped mere feet from him then began to straighten. Even with its head and shoulders not stooped, it was shorter than the servant by almost a head.

"Emrys..." it said, and Merlin realized that she was female, "we have been waiting for this day since the dawn of magic in mortals..." Her voice was raspy, wheezing, ancient.

"Are—" Merlin coughed. "Are you...Larentia?"

"I am a priestess of Larentia, and we are the forest." She said 'we' as though she were speaking for more than just herself. Merlin couldn't help but wonder if Larentia was partly talking through her, despite being trapped in a dormant world.

The priestess lowered her hood. "Call me Hecate." She pronounced it "hay-_cat_-ay," like the fabled goddess of magic. She was definitely aged, her face lined and dry, like an apple that had left out in the sun. Each crevice told a thousand stories, of woe, and of happiness. Her long hair was rough like a horse's mane, rippling between grey and ashen white. Her eyes though, were what startled the warlock. They were a piercing, unnatural yellow, ringed by brown-orange. Merlin struggled to hold her gaze as the priestess shuffled around him, inspecting him curiously. "So mundane in appearance, yet with such a large destiny. You are fated to do such great things, Emrys."

**Yes, I know. A clumsy place to break. A feeble attempt for suspense. Blah blah blah.**

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"**This forest is old...very old...Full of memory...and anger..." ~ Legolas (The Lord of the Rings)**


	23. Arcane Knowledge

**I truly am sorry how long it's been taking me to update. With my job, I write only about a fifth of the pace that I used to. I'm trying to keep this story at a good pace, but to do that, I can't write myself into a corner, which will happen if I can't stay ahead of the updates. It's getting harder and harder but I swear to you, I will not give up.**

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~23~ Arcane Knowledge

"You're a priestess of the Ancient Kingdom?"

Hecate smiled grimly. "One of the few who remain. One of the few who had been chosen by prophecy in ages past. We have no choice in the matter."

The warlock looked to Gabriela, who was standing perfectly still, deadpan.

"Do not trouble yourself with her," said the priestess. "We speak only to you."

Merlin bristled. "What do you mean, 'trouble?' I trust her."

"We did not mean to offend your trust, Emrys. You should still be wary; her kind has killed many of yours."

"My kind is not what you think," Merlin said, rebellion spicing in his tone. "Gabriela has a right to speak with you just as much as I."

Hecate hastily extinguished the aura of anger and bemusement caused by the warlock's outburst. "So be it. But do not think you can toy with us, mortal. We may be a shadow of our past glory, but we can use the Silver Heart as well as you. It is a dangerous tool, one that can break the barrier between the worlds. You will do well to remember that when you go to use it."

Merlin remembered enough about Archons to know that, indeed, there are those who are gone that should stay gone, some more so than others.

The priestess considered him. "You know a few Archons of your own, don't you? Or rather, their agents. Do you remember Anhora?"

"Yes...yes, the Keeper of the Unicorns! He was an Archon disciple?"

"Indubitably. He was one of Larentia's brother's more extinguished – and benevolent – accomplices. And what about Taliesin?"

This time, Merlin remembered faster. "He was the Seer who showed me the Crystal Cave with the prophetic visions. I only ever saw him once..."

Again Hecate nodded, her golden eyes piercing Merlin's blue like shards of topaz. "Your memory is good, Emrys. That will help you in later years. There are very few Archon disciples left in your world, for they have either died or decided to join the Archons in the dormant domain. But enough about that. You wished to speak to Larentia, yet I grow tired. It is only because of the Silver Heart and your immense powers that she has the strength and will to answer to you through me at all. Without one or the other, this exchange would not be possible." She slowly moved to sit on the edge of the stone table before the statue of the Archon. "What is that you want, Emrys?"

The warlock shifted. "Do you not know? I thought you would."

"We are not so omniscient as you make us to be. We Know what the forest Knows. We Hear what it Hears and no more. I See no obvious troubles in your path."

"See? Like the Silverbloods and Blackhands?"

A ripple of irritated unrest spoiled the calmed aura of the shrine as Hecate stood, no longer depicting a delicate old woman. She shook her wrinkled finger vigorously."Watch your tongue, boy! How dare you bring up old hatreds and mistrusts like a rotten root? They defiled Larentia's name with their false praises and misjudged assumptions! They believe she watched over them but in truth she had not the ability to strike them down herself. Foolish mortal. Do not speak of which you do not know!"

Merlin unwillingly retreated a step, feeling true fear for the first time. "What? I don't understand! How did I offend you, priestess?"

Hecate raised a hand. A force slammed into Merlin like a storm headwind, and what must be the powers of the unseen Archon prodded his mind like a telepathic, not kindly, making him shudder. After several moments, it withdrew, leaving Merlin gasping and sweating.

"Forgive us, Emrys," said Hecate docilely. "We had to make sure that you were not lying to us. We now understand your ignorance, and hold nothing against you."

"What do you mean?"

"It is a misconception that the Silverbloods, and _Blackhands_, are anything like the Archons. Know that they are not in their favour. Larentia did not give them the gift of the Sight."

"Then...who did?"

Hecate continued to speak from her perspective. "It was her brother, Nocturn, who followed through with such a foolish endeavour. Like Larentia, he was one of the last Archons to accept the end of their time, and they both held to this world for as long as they could. They loved it dearly so, and I loved them..." The priestess trailed off mournfully.

_How _old_ is she?_ Merlin couldn't help but wonder in awe.

Hecate continued in full vigour, "Nocturn was the one who created the werewolves thousands of years ago, just after the dragons were birthed by Draco. Back then, it had real offspring of its own. That beast was one of many made by Nocturn, others being the unicorn and the gryphon. He loved putting animals together; it amused him to see how they compared to Larentia's creatures, how they hunted, how they acted, how they terrorized mortals if they had the nature and the inclination." Hecate shook her head. "He claimed to have brought the werewolves into the world to ensure that the mortals were kept on their toes. I'm sure that it was just for fun. He eventually changed the werewolves to prey on humans, used them to expand their already swollen numbers."

"What do the Silverbloods have to do with this?"

"Patience, Emrys. I was getting to that. Larentia's brother watched with gradually ebbing entertainment as the mortals fought in vain against the spreading werewolf blood, or, when the time came, were ruled by it. When the Archons were forced from this world, Nocturn gave three mortals the power to See, and therefore recognize, the werewolf even when it was still a human. The Sight also let them See magic of all kinds, and the emotions of lesser beings. So began the war between the beast and the bloods."

"But the Silverbloods didn't succeed."

"Looking at you now, I would say not."

"And that's why I'm here."

"You're here to prove that the Silverbloods failed in their efforts?"

Merlin paused. "...No. I'm here for a cure."

The Archon's presence once more swept through the shrine, and Merlin feared it would pry at his mind again. But Hecate merely took a step forward, looking confused. "A cure? Whatever do you want a cure for?"

Merlin frowned. "This is a curse. I've already killed a man and—"

"You should not be so hasty, young mortal. This is a _gift!_ A give of strength, speed, and longevity. You should be honoured for such an opportunity."

"...Opportunity?"

"To be the best of man, and the best of beast. In this age, you would be unstoppable."

"I don't _want_ to be unstoppable! I want it _gone_, and from my king as well!"

The priestess blinked her large yellow eyes, clearly still baffled. "Your king? What is a king compared to the terrible and magnificent power of the werewolf? With your limitless magic, you have the potential to be the greatest being to ever roam the earth, and even rival the power of the Archons themselves."

Merlin struggled to keep his face impassive. "What good is magic when I can't use it?"

"How do you mean?"

"I don't have my mind as a wolf. I can't use magic, and I can't turn at will. All I do is hurt people!"

Larentia seemed to sigh through Hecate. "You do not know how to control the werewolf blood, Emrys. It is possible for you to retain your mind even as you change, giving you full control—not to mention giving fear unto your enemies. This is a _gift_. You are as misinformed as those Silverbloods to think otherwise."

Anger had started to boil at the priestess' suggestion that Merlin become an unbeatable force that would bring Albion to its knees, but it was now overwhelming him and he had to fight as hard as he did the werewolf the previous night to keep it down. "How...how can you expect me to abuse my power so?" He spoke to the air now, aiming at the vague presence of Larentia. "This whole country is at stake because of your brother's creation. He – _you_ – must come to terms with the ending of the werewolf. Its time is gone, just like yours."

"How dare you speak to her that way?" Hecate snapped. "You may have great powers at your disposal, Emrys, but I can still _crush_ you."

Merlin gritted his teeth in fury, trying to pull himself from the brink of destruction. He heaved in breath through his nostrils, suddenly noticing the sweat trickling down his forehead and into his eye. Blinking, he met Hecate's perturbing gaze.

"I am not your enemy," he said firmly. "I come merely to beg for aid." He raised his voice, imploring Larentia to hear his plea. "My master, my friend, King Arthur Pendragon, has been infected the same as I. And in this age, such a thing means inevitable and catastrophic chaos. You call it a gift, and perhaps it was, thousands of years ago. But not now. Now, it marks me, marks Arthur, for death."

Hecate calmed just like Merlin had himself, as did the bristled presence of the Archon. After several moments of silence, the priestess said, "Arthur Pendragon. He, too, is destined for greatness. You said he was your friend."

Merlin lowered his gaze. "...He's more than that. Without him, I am nothing." A warm breeze swept around him, almost comfortingly.

"You mortals have always fascinated us," said Hecate, again speaking for her and her mistress. "You have survived everything we have ever thrown at you, because you always had that one thing to hold onto: hope." Larentia's wind withdrew slightly, but did not depart. "We can See your love for him, and through you, we can See that he is indeed a good man."

"And a royal prat."

The wind had a fresh air of amusement, but Hecate said nothing.

Merlin sighed through his nose and looked down at the Silver Heart, the metal warm from the contact of his hand. Then what felt like invisible fingers lifted his chin, and he looked at the cynical priestess.

"Do you know why they left this world, Emrys? It was because they could do nothing more. They had shaped the lands and its inhabitants as they saw fit, then they let you go to make your own lives. Not really expecting much, we were all astonished to see you mortals flourish – you grew crops, you domesticated animals, you created social classes, built cities, and much, much more. The Archons, of course, were treated like gods, until they were forgotten behind confusion, doubt, and superstition. Forgotten by all but the Priests and Priestesses of the Ancient Kingdom. Some of them acted in anger, others couldn't care less. The eldest and wisest decided that it was in fact time for them to leave, but not everyone agreed. The five Knights of the Apocalypse, for example, tried for thousands of years to return and wreck havoc upon your world. Larentia wanted to stay behind to protect her beloved woods and animals, while her brother simply loved to watch mortals fight to survive against his own creations."

"So Larentia and her kin created mankind? And everything in the world?"

"No, not created—shaped. Shaped and sculpted. Not dramatically, but just enough to start the beginning of new species or help those already existing to survive in new environments. No, life was already on this planet before we arrived, primitive as it was."

Merlin chewed on the arcane knowledge, realizing that he had been shared information that hadn't been told to anyone for hundreds—_thousands_—of years. The very thought was staggering.

Hecate nearly chuckled. "What you see as an incredible length of time is a mere heartbeat for an Archon. Even for me. Mortals to an Archon are as flies to a mortal, which is why we deem it such an honour to speak to you in so small a window."

"An honour?"

"You are Emrys. There will be no mortal, warlock or not, like you for the rest of humankind."

_Saints alive_, Merlin thought. Whatever Kilgharrah said about his destiny being great was not the slightest bit exaggerated.

Hecate slumped against the stone table of the shrine. "This journey has wearied me, Emrys. I fear my time grows short. Ask what you want of Larentia, and I shall oblige you in her stead."

The warlock wasted no time. "How do I cure the curse of the werewolf?"

"You are adamant in the removal of the gift, then. Fine. I shall indulge you—"

"Thank you—"

"For a price."

"Of course_._" Merlin's hands went to his hips. "So, shall it be my firstborn or my soul?"

"Calm yourself, Emrys. I have no more energy for sarcasm. My price for removing the blessing is two things." The priestess was shuffling towards him again, and Merlin felt his unease return. She held up one finger. "First, you must learn to control it—"

"But why?" the servant interrupted, confused. "What would be the point?"

"One cannot fully appreciate life without treading dangerous waters, Emrys."

"I'm not here to experience the _thrills_ of life. I'm here for—"

"You are only making this more difficult for yourself. Be silent."

The abrupt and brusque command silenced Merlin instantly, and he blushed in his chagrin.

"I owe you nothing. You must earn my aid – not a difficult task, I assure you. It is possible, as I have said before, to retain control of your mind whilst a werewolf. You are going to attempt to do so, and when you succeed, I will lift your burden."

Merlin noticed that she said _when_, not _if_. "And what about Arthur? No matter what any old prophecy or whatever says, he is more important to Albion than every other man right now."

"All in good time, Emrys. Now, give the Heart to the Silverblood-Druid shaman."

As Merlin obliged, he suddenly remembered to ask, "Where did the Heart come from? Was it your—" He glanced upwards, meaning to ask Larentia. "_Your_ bother's?"

"Do you want to ask questions all night, or do you want your spirit human again?" Hecate's irritation drained in exasperation. "If you must know, it was Larentia's. As she Saw via me and the forest the werewolves cause chaos on earth, she deemed it necessary to help the mortals. She summoned enough strength to break the barrier through me just so, an endeavour I have yet to fully recover from, and created the Silver Heart – now in the form of a wolf, I see – so that the werewolves could be culled when appropriate, as it _was_ appropriate. I'm surprised they lived for so long..."

"The Heart had been lost, but was found over a century ago by the Silverbloods."

"Ah. That explains it. I have a third condition for your release, warlock."

"And that is?"

"Once the last of the werewolves have finally been vanquished, as their end is inevitable, you must destroy the Heart."

"What? Why?"

"Do you not recall us telling you that such a tool is incredibly dangerous? It can cross between the worlds, Emrys! There are few like it left here, but perhaps you know one. Can you guess any?"

Merlin shuffled briskly through his memories. "What about...the Cup of Life?"

"That one is still here, is it? Hm. I should speak to Argoth about that...I'm sure he's still sleeping..." Hecate faded off, and the warlock shifted uneasily until the priestess noticed. "Now—"

"Wait!" Merlin perked. "Initially, you said you had two requests in order for you to remove the werewolf. You said I had to learn how to control it – what was the other one?"

Hecate seemed to have grown temporarily deaf to his question, but there was a sudden air of anticipation around her. "Time grows short. No more questions. Are you ready, Emrys? Are you ready to take control of the beast within?"

Merlin stifled his irritation as he hefted the Silver Heart in his hands. Then, without a word, he strode towards Gabriela and gave it to her. Almost immediately, his powerful sense of smell returned to him, bombarding him with the rich scents of damp vegetation and forest life.

"I'm ready," he said.

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"**Everything changes with time. We should know this best of all." ~ Tamina (Prince of Persia)**


	24. St Peter's Abbey

~24~ One Step Forward...

The horse was grunting in protest, its pace lagging considerably as the king pushed it onwards. He was reluctant to do so, but there was little choice as dusk approached and Saint Peter's Abbey was still three miles away.

The horse, owned by a Silverblood, was noble and strong, but every creature has its limits, and Arthur had driven it far past its own.

_I'm sorry_, he thought as he forced the poor beast back into a gallop. _So sorry. If you could only understand that..._

"Arthur! We must stop!" It was Leon, calling from several strides back over the thunder of hooves on the grassy hillside. "The horses can't take anymore!"

"Just a bit further!" Arthur called back over his shoulder.

"My lord!" It was Baldwin this time. "It will be pointless to reach the abbey today if we run the horses to the ground. We won't be able to get back to Camelot in decent time!"

Arthur grumbled, but acknowledged the Silverblood captain's logic, wishing that he had thought of it himself. Gently easing the exhausted horse to a canter and then a trot, he let it choose when to slow to a walk, which it wasted no time in doing. The king's company followed suit, and the loud huffing of laboured panting filled the air. Arthur brushed the neck of his grey in approval, but the beast ignored him as it heaved for breath.

"Dismount!" the king called. "We'll walk from here." Stepping down from the stirrups, Arthur took the reins in his hands and led the grey up the rest of the hill. His knees trembled slightly and his backside ached from the long journey in the saddle. He tried not to move like a goose as he marched to the crest of the hill and scanned the surrounding landscape. To his left rose a mountain range, eternal mists shrouding their peaks. To his right, the hill fell away into grassy plains and woodland, glowing golden in the setting sun. Before him, the ground bowed into a shallow vale before rising to a second hill, which was crowned with birches.

"Saint Peter's Abbey is just passed that hill," said Percival, coming up behind the king. "We could make it there before nightfall, but it'll be tight."

"Perhaps it would be wise if we wait until dawn to approach it," put out Elyan, also nearing Arthur, his horse's head drooping in fatigue. "It might look like we are trying to raid them in the dark otherwise."

"There's no time," retorted Arthur, though listening to the knight would be the most logical course of action. "I won't have us left in the open, especially if I turn and you have nowhere to defend yourselves. If we can get to the abbey fast enough, you would be safe there."

"Baldwin said you have a week until you turn again."

"No, Elyan, he said I have between a week and a _day_ until I turn again. It's a risk I'm not willing to take. Let's go."

"You _worry_ too much, your royal hiney," scoffed Gwaine, falling abreast with the king and throwing an arm around his shoulders. "You just need to _relaaax_. Enjoy the world and its mead! Don't worry about growing fur and simply pause to reflect on life and all its flowery freshness—!"

Arthur sniffed, and grimaced. "_Damn_, Gwaine! When's the last time you've had a bath? 'Flowery freshness,' my ass."

The knight blinked, then raised an arm and smelled himself. Shrugging, he said, "What?"

As the king pulled away, he glared in disgust at him, and at the rest as well. "You all smell like you've been swimming in onions and salt. Does hygiene mean anything to you?" Then he glanced at the steeds. "I don't remember horses smelling so overwhelming, either."

He seemed oblivious to the estranged and incredulous looks he was receiving from his men. Baldwin seemed to be the only one unfazed by the accusations, however.

"Your senses have evolved a little slower than expected," the Silverblood said calmly. "But they're here now."

"What do you mean, captain?"

"Your men are bewildered because they cannot smell each other, at least, not so intensely as you. I admit that they do remind me of an onion field on a hot summer day—" He got many glares for that. "—But that's beside the point. You now have the ability to smell things that would be otherwise hidden from you. It's a..._side affect_ of the werewolf venom."

Gwaine grunted, impressed. "Wow. A human bloodhound. Handy."

Arthur ignored the knight and fell into a harried, contemplative silence. He was becoming more and more like the beast he fought so desperately against every passing moment.

Now that their pace was considerably slower, Arthur grew restless as the sun inched towards its bed on the western horizon. He felt like a prisoner waiting upon the hour he would walk to the headman's block. He was trapped in an hourglass and the sands of time were pouring atop him, suffocating him and weighing him down. He had never felt so helpless before.

They descended into the shallow canyon betwixt the two hills cautiously, which ate even more time. Their legs burned on the way back up the other side, but it was the shortest route and they suffered it without complaint. Arthur called for a rest once they crested the hill at last, and they recovered what strength remained in their limbs in the grove of birch trees there.

"Is it much further?" asked the king of Percival, and the knight shook his head.

"You can just see the old steeple from here," he said, pointing.

Within the hour, when the sun had sunk and the sky was filling with stars, the large abbey was before them. It was standing pretty well, regarding how old it was, but the short wall around it had crumbled to ruin and the front door was clearly a makeshift. The windows had been bordered up to prevent wind from entering and chilling the inhabitants. More details were too difficult to detect, as it was dark.

"They will have archer watchmen," warned Baldwin, coming up beside Arthur. "We must approach cautiously—"

The twang of an arrow shot free of a bow shattered the night silence, and Leon howled as the quarrel buried itself in his thigh. Alarm stilled Arthur and the knights for only a heartbeat, then they drew their swords and circled Leon protectively, shields up. A second arrow thudded into the ground near Gwaine's foot, but he did not flinch.

"_Cease fire!_" Baldwin roared at the abbey. "It is I, Baldwin Silverblood! Cease your fire,_ damn it!_"

The third and forth arrows fortunately missed their mark, though Arthur stiffened as one zipped close his ear; he'd felt the wind as it passed by.

When all that could be heard were the crickets and frogs, Baldwin led the way to the ruins, glaring fire at the dark spaces where archers were apt to be hiding in. Before they reached the gate—or where the gate should have been—a Silverblood pulled open the front door of the building and stepped out, a torch in hand. He looked suspicious, but when he saw that it was indeed Baldwin approaching, he saluted.

"Captain Baldwin," he said formally.

"Delius. Control your archers, why don't you."

Even in the yellow light of the torch, it was obvious that the Silverblood was blushing at the chastisement. As Baldwin continued to speak with him, Arthur turned to see Leon gritting his teeth as he tried to pull the arrow free of his leg, sweat beading his forehead. Without a word, the king instead helped the man stand, supporting him. He tried not to let the alluring scent of fresh blood affect him.

"Leave it. We don't want you bleeding to death. We'll get you inside first, then deal with it."

The knight nodded tersely, biting the inside of his cheek and breathing heavily through his nose.

Elyan took Leon's other arm, and together, he and the king aided the knight up to the abbey door, where Delius Silverblood saw them, and grew tense.

"Captain, are you all right?"

"Of course I am!" Baldwin snapped. "They're with me. Now let us in. Where is Remus?"

Delius stepped aside and allowed the party to enter the large hall filled with old pews and a weathered statue at the far end. "Right where we left him. We haven't let him see the light of day, as you ordered."

"We need to speak to him. Excuse us."

Though he still looked confused, Delius stood at attention as Baldwin and the others passed, but he squinted at Arthur and his knights suspiciously. The king glared back at him, and he quailed.

Arthur hid a smirk. _Yep, he can See the werewolf in my blood_, he thought.

Near the back of the abbey, Baldwin pushed open a creaky door, which led into a dark corridor lit by only two torches.

"Leon needs to lie down," Arthur insisted, and Baldwin absentmindedly flicked a finger to the side.

"There's a bed in that room with medical supplies in the cupboards. Do what you need to do, then join me in the third to last room on the left at in the next corridor." The captain did not turn around through the exchange. It was as though he were only half there, and the rest of him was already interrogating Remus, the former and shamed Keeper of the Heart.

Arthur let him go, but told Gwaine and Percival to join him, to keep a watchful eye. The knights nodded in confirmation and followed Baldwin down the hall.

Elyan pushed open the side door and helped Arthur bring Leon inside. They laid the knight on the bed, which was little more than a straw-filled mattress with blankets of animal skins, and then tended to his leg. Leon put a piece of cloth in his mouth so he wouldn't bite his tongue, and he squeezed the hilt of his sword as Arthur jerked the arrow out of his thigh. Elyan was ready with the linen, and he hastily covered the wound to staunch the blood flow. Together, the companions fixed up the injury to the best of their abilities.

"I wish we knew more about this stuff," Elyan grunted, indicating to the many herbs littering the cupboards and bedside table. "We would be able to reduce the risk of infection with some plants, but if we tried..."

"We'd just end up poisoning you," Arthur said to Leon, and grinned.

The knight, sweating and ashen-faced, tried to smile in turn. "If only Merlin were here, eh?"

Arthur's expression faded into one of grim surrender. "If only."

The king left Elyan to watch Leon as he rested and made his way down the corridor to where Baldwin was questioning Remus.

_Okay, which door did he say it was?_ Arthur wandered from room to room, peeking in those that he could and discarding the locked ones. He turned into a new corridor and saw a fresh set of doors all the way down. He wished that he had been paying more attention to the Silverblood captain.

Taking a deep breath, he nearly began a new search when he was overwhelmed by the strong scent of human body odour. To his surprise, he had no difficulty distinguishing Gwaine's from Percival's, or Baldwin's from them both.

_Handy, indeed_, he thought, half impressed by his new skill and half despaired.

Following his nose, he was able to discard the fainter but detectable scents of other Silverbloods who had roamed by hours ago and find the correct door, the third from last on the left of the corridor. Pushing it open, Gwaine and Percival both turned to look at him while Baldwin continued to question Remus in a low voice. Arthur focused on the sorry, depleted man roped to the chair in the centre of the dark room. He looked haggard from lack of food and sunlight, with torn clothes and a sunken face. His head was drooped to avoid looking at Baldwin, and he flinched whenever anyone moved.

"Has he said anything?" Arthur demanded, finding a strange resilience to sympathy for the man.

Baldwin growled. "Nothing that we don't already know."

The king nodded, breathing quietly through his mouth. He found it impossible to ignore the strong stench of Remus's unwashed body, vomit, and urine; he wished he could control his peaked sense of smell.

"Can he track the Silver Heart? He was in possession of it for years, you said. Could it be possible that he bonded with it through magical means?"

"That's what I'm trying to wheedle out of him," Baldwin retorted sharply, out of frustration. "He doesn't seem to understand that his Blackhand _friends_ aren't coming to save him. He's not _important_ enough."

"Look, I've said all I know!" the pitiful man wailed, then cringed as Baldwin lifted a threatening hand.

"Baldwin!" Arthur snapped, halting the blow just before it struck. "That'll do."

The captain lowered his fist begrudgingly, but acknowledged the king's authority and sense. It would not do to beat information out if there was no information to be had. Retreating, Baldwin let Arthur approach and assume control.

The king found another chair and placed it before Remus before sitting, leaning forward so he could see part of the Blackhand's face. "Remus, right?"

The man didn't reply.

"Look...You're the cause of all this, you know. You betrayed your family, your _true_ family. You set a werewolf loose in the land, and I and my servant are paying for your actions, be it deliberate or an accident. It was the former, wasn't it?"

Still, Remus remained prone.

Arthur sighed and instead leaned back in his chair. "Your crimes are unforgivable, but you have a chance to redeem yourself. There—" The king paused, perking like a horse. "What was that?"

The two knights in the room glanced at each other. "What was what?"

"That...crashing sound?"

Baldwin frowned, then strode to the door just as the Silverblood, Delius, ran up and skidded to a halt outside the threshold. "Captain, we're under attack!"

"By whom?"

"Blackhands!"

"How is this possible?" Percival demanded before Arthur could, while Gwaine drew his sword.

"We must have been followed," Baldwin growled, thunder-faced. "How many?"

"At least two dozen, sir, probably more. We cannot hold them for long." Delius kept glancing frantically down the corridor from whence he came. "We have to go, now!"

Baldwin drew a dagger and made for the Keeper, and Arthur said, "Yes, untie him. We'll take him with us and—" He cried out in alarm as the captain stabbed Remus in the neck, hot blood spraying all over his hands. "What are you doing?" the king roared, grabbing Baldwin's shoulder and roughly turning him around.

"If he will not help us, then he is useless!" the Silverblood barked back, as the captive slumped lifelessly in the chair, not even making a sound. Arthur was on the verge of snapping when a loud bang exploded somewhere down the corridor.

"They are coming, captain!" Delius squealed, trying not to bolt. "And there are too many to fight! We must go!"

Though Arthur still glowered poisoned daggers at Baldwin, he followed his knights out and proceeded down the hall, to the last room. Delius was holding open a door.

"Your horses were kept at the back of the abbey, just outside that door, there," he said, indicating with a trembling hand. "Go, we will cover you, and meet you later."

Arthur was about to depart the abbey from that rear exit when he skid to a halt. "Leon!"

Gwaine was already charging back inside when Percival turned about at the cry, and the two knights were sent staggering as Gwaine crashed into him. Arthur didn't wait for them to recover before sprinting down the corridor, ignoring Baldwin's hollers for him to stop and drawing _Excalibur_. Flying around the corner into the first hall, he saw a Blackhand poking his head into the room where Leon was resting with Elyan on guard. The Blackhand leaped back as the knight's blade swung at him, then raised his own weapon and proceeded to lay siege to the room. Before Arthur reached him, a swarm of howling Blackhands stampeded into the corridor all at once, and attempted to break in as well. None of them had yet noticed the king.

"_Yeaaaaaaarg!_"

Arthur fell among their roiling numbers, hacking and stabbing at anything that moved. Men screamed in agony and terror as they lost life and limb, not in that order, but the king was deaf to their pleas of mercy. A few managed to turn to face him. _Excalibur_ was but flashes of metal and whirs of sound and they were cut down before they had a chance to strike.

It was odd, but to Arthur they seemed to move more slowly than they should. He recalled faintly, as he lopped off the arm of a man before beheading him, that his knights were the same that day on the training field when he'd sparred with Merlin. At first he'd thought it adrenaline, but now he knew it to be the affects of the werewolf.

_I'm not about to thank it_, he thought to himself, and gutted a Blackhand before he swung his hammer at the king's head.

The last four Silverblood turn-coats screamed and fled the carnage, but Arthur did not follow them. He pushed past Elyan and into the room. The knight was panting from the excursions, and the king abruptly realized that he himself wasn't the slightest bit tired.

"There will be more of them. Let's get you out of here," Arthur grunted to Leon, who had stood and was trying to hold a sword without falling over. He pulled the knight's arm around his own shoulders and led him towards the door. Elyan checked for any attackers before taking Leon's other side. Gwaine and Percival were waiting outside, their eyes wide.

"Damn, Arthur! I've never seen you move so fast!" Gwaine whistled through his teeth and shook his head. "Those Blackhand bastards were dead before we even got here!"

"Not now, Gwaine," the king snapped, sounding harsher than he intended. "Let's go."

The two knights covered Arthur, Elyan, and wounded Leon as they hastened back down the corridor to the exit around the bend. Once outside, they beheld Baldwin already mounted on his horse and the rest of the steeds waiting by their posts. Leon was gently strapped into place on his saddle and, after they were sure he wouldn't fall, they turned the beasts southeast, forcing them into an unyielding gallop.

* * *

"**Fly, you fools." ~ Gandalf (The Lord of the Rings)**


	25. To Curb and Vanquish

~25~ To Curb and Vanquish

Merlin took a deep breath as he felt the werewolf stir on the threshold. He was vaguely aware of Gabriela, standing away from the circular mosaic floor with the Silver Heart, and Hecate, the priestess of the Ancient Kingdom, watching intently like a grave sentinel. The faint winds of Larentia the Archon drifted soothingly around him, calming his mind and his body, and allowing the beast within to rise to the surface.

When the first bout of pain wracked his chest, the warlock cringed, but held his tongue and did not fight. It was like his heart was becoming too large for his chest, and he gritted his teeth and shut his eyes as though to hide from the torment. The next spasm occurred in his shoulders, and his head flinched to the side before returning to stare blankly at the statue of Larentia. He released the breath he didn't know he was holding and tried to remain tranquil even when what felt like ravenous rats began to gnaw and burrow into his stomach.

"The time comes, Emrys," Hecate said softly as the servant finally yielded and doubled over in agony. "Prepare yourself. Remember, _you_ are the master here. You are in control."

"I—" Merlin retched emptily. "I am in control." The words felt foolish to say, but he meant every syllable. Even as he fell to his knees, he braved the storm raging in his mind and refused to let his feeble yet faithful vessel be swallowed by the greedy waves. Fire ripped through his hands and arms as muscle bulged and tendons snapped. He screamed as his spine broke and grew extra vertebrae, making him taller. He gnashed his sharpening teeth as he struggled remain standing, and noticed that his legs now had the structure of a wolf's, but the musculature of a human's. He also had a tail, which was probably the strangest feeling of all.

He could no longer speak, for his mouth and nose had turned into a muzzle of grinding teeth, with twin savage canines and piercing incisors. His hearing senses had heightened along with his smell, and his night vision was impressive.

The transformation was complete. Merlin tossed his head back and howled at the sky, for the urge was simply too great to ignore. When he finished, breathing heavily, he relished the sensations of the beast, the strength, the power, the speed; he felt invisible. He longed to run through the woods and hunt, be it man or animal, and he was on the verge of jumping out of the ravine when a strange voice whispered calmly yet pressingly into his ear.

_Remember who you are, Emrys_.

It took several seconds, but Merlin _did_ remember. His hackles fell and his muzzle smoothed as he ceased to growl. He relaxed his hyper, tensed muscles and crouched lower to the ground, submissive.

_I did it. _Merlin was pleased he could still think words with sureness. He looked happily to the priestess, who seemed unafraid of the dangerous creature before her.

"Control is a precarious state," Hecate said soothingly. "It can be lost at a moment's notice, and be very difficult to win back. You have kept your mind even when your body was taken, and a lesser being could not do better. Few have been able to do with several tries that you have succeeded in one, and by the sounds of it, none have been able to control it at all for centuries. The art must have been lost when the werewolves became an endangered species. Be proud, Emrys. You have done what many would have assumed impossible."

Merlin growled with pleasure, but Hecate was not done.

"I warn you again, Emrys: _anything_ can set you off and let the werewolf take control. Even the scent of blood was known to make a master whirl into a frenzy. It is a pity that there are no masters left to teach you and fine tune your skills, but time is short, and there is another thing you must do."

_You want me to change back?_

"I want you to change back," she said, as though reading his mind. "It would not do to be caught in this form."

_But Gaius told me that once a person has turned for the third time, he is stuck a werewolf forever_. Merlin frowned, as well as his new features would allow. Hecate must have noticed his puzzlement.

"You were probably told, or perhaps read, that the transformation back to a human after a third change is impossible," she said. Her "telepathy" was uncanny. "The account of man cannot be entirely trusted. If you didn't know that it was possible to keep full control of yourself, then you may not know that it was also possible for you to take control and turn into a werewolf the moment you were infected, the moment the blood of the beast filled your veins.

"There was a time when werewolves were kings and tyrants," she continued. "Many mundanes were afraid, others awed, most jealous. Stories spread, and as the hunters, the Silverbloods, expanded and became more powerful, they spread lies. They toppled the werewolf dynasties all over the world, here, in Albion, last of all. That was long, long ago, and over the gap between then and now, it would seem that the knowledge was lost, and if the modern day Silverbloods know of it, they are clearly telling no one."

"My lady, if I may poise a question?"

Both Merlin and Hecate turned to Gabriela. The warlock had forgotten she was there. The priestess nodded, albeit begrudgingly.

"What aboutRowan Silverblood? He never changed back, and the werewolf has allowed him to live for over a century."

"Rowan Silverblood never learned control. Even now, I can feel his presence, wandering the woods, loose and dangerous. Do not worry yourself about him; he is lost."

Gabriela nodded sadly and took a pace back, head bowed.

Merlin inspected himself, taking in the glossy, ebony fur and the muscle that rippled below it, the wide slashing hands and powerful legs. _So...it is possible for me to turn back as much as I want?_

Again it was as though Hecate read his mind.

"Your willpower is strong, but do not overestimate it, whatever you do. Even biases have threads of truth in them. Before you change back, however, I'm going to show you what it's like to be under the influence of the Silver Heart, not that it would make much difference if you were. You would be helpless."

With that, the priestess glanced at Gabriela, who brushed the Heart and stared intently at Merlin. All at once, his limbs froze and he could not move. Even his thoughts felt not his own, though he was conscious of it. He tried to take a step, twitch a finger, _blink_, but he could not. It was as though he had become a statue.

"Enough."

Merlin released a gush of air, the sound whooshing through his nose and accompanied by an unanticipated growl, startling himself.

"Now, Emrys," instructed the priestess, "you must turn back. It won't be easy, for you were not long a beast and you haven't sated the blood lust that comes with it. But you must prove that _you_ are the master here."

Merlin nodded, a strange feeling in his wolfish form. Then he remembered something, and glanced down at the torn clothes scattered around him. _Uh..._

Hecate chuckled, something she had not done before. "You need not feel shame around me, Emrys. However, I believe your companion had thought ahead and brought you new attire."

On cue, Gabriela lifted the satchel from her shoulders and left it on the ground while she departed to give him privacy.

The priestess faced Merlin straight on. "It is time, Emrys. Force the werewolf down and coax your own body back to the surface. I warn you, it will be no smoother than when you turned into the beast. You will want to end the pain, but then you will never turn back. Give it an attempt now_."_

Again, Merlin nodded in acceptance, after which he glanced down at himself uselessly, unsure of how to start. He half-expected Hecate to give him some pointers, but when the priestess said nothing, he closed his eyes and concentrated on...well, it was difficult to concentrate on something if what should be concentrated on is not known. For several minutes, he stood there, staring at nothing, trying to ignore the tempting forest scents and the urge to hunt. Impatience began to override his determination, and he paced sullenly around the circular mosaic, his nails clicking against the metal. He amazed himself with how much his tail was of use when keeping balance.

_I am Merlin_, he thought. _This is _my_ body, and I demand it back!_

Nothing. The growl that purred with his every breath intensified, and he turned himself inward, as if to find the werewolf conscience within and force it to relinquish its hold, to no avail.

What felt near thirty minutes trickled by and the warlock had no success. Finally, Hecate could not ignore his aggravation and said, "It is like learning a new and difficult spell, Emrys. You have done more intricate things than this, because your dedication and determination let you, helped you. This is no different."

_A new spell?_ Merlin thought to himself. _When I learn a new spell, I just trust myself and my magic to do it right, even if it takes a few tries...I just..._trust_ myself._ The answer came to him then. Well, not so much as an answer than the right path.

This time, he tried not to think of it as a torture, but as a pleasurable pain that came with a tolling exercise on the practice field, one that he knew only made him stronger and more durable. As his coat of black fur shed, his muscles shrank and his bones yanked back into proper lengths and positions.

Before he knew it, he was on his hands and knees, gasping for breath and sweating like a horse. He was human.

He smiled to himself as he saw his claw-less, hair-free hands. He wiggled his fingers against the mosaic floor with a flourish. His night vision was gone, yet his smell was still peaked more than usual. That was easy enough to live with. His legs felt shaky, so he crawled over to where Gabriela had left the satchel and fished around for a fresh set of clothes. Once dressed in the flowing garb of the Druids, he used the rough walls of the ravine to stand.

"Well done, Emrys."

Merlin smiled through his fatigue. "I did it."

"You did. Now for the other half of the bargain."

The warlock stiffened, trying not to grimace. He recalled that Hecate demanded three things in exchange for lifting the curse of the werewolf. The first was that he had to learn to control it, despite it being redundant. Another was to destroy the Silver Heart once the werewolves were extinct. Hecate had failed to announce the third requirement.

"What is it?" he asked briskly. Suddenly, his achievement didn't seem so invigorating. He sensed Hecate approaching, and he tried to face her. He felt felt her wrinkled hand fall on his shoulder.

"I want the spirit of the wolf."

Instead of fear, now Merlin only felt bafflement. "What?" He turned towards her, unflinching beneath the scrutiny of her yellow eyes.

She sounded almost mournful as she said, "I have seen many years on this earth, serving Larentia in any way I could." She shook her head. "But servitude alone is not enough to assure passage to her domain when I pass, and I know I shall pass soon. The spirit of the wolf will give me the ability to be with the Archons, with Larentia, forever when I die."

Merlin swallowed. "So...you want me to bite you?" It was a very strange thing to say. Not at all acceptable in the social outlook of things.

But Hecate was shaking her head wearily. "If you do that, there is a chance, even with your control, that you would kill me. If that is the case, then I would be seen as having taken my own life, and I would never see Larentia again." She stepped back, her withered hands moving to rest inside the others' cuff. "I will lift your blessing, and make it my own."

That sounded a lot better than biting an old lady.

"How?"

The priestess moved to stand closer to the statue of Larentia, and then indicated to the middle of the shrine's maze-patterned floor. "Stand here."

Merlin pushed away from the rock wall to obey. As soon as he reached the middle, he paused. "Wait! What about Arthur?"

"I cannot removed the gift from the king while he is so far away."

Merlin sounded alarmed. "Then what should I do? Go get him?"

"No. Larentia's power is not limitless in this realm, and even now, it runs weak. The only thing we can do after removing your blessing is create a vessel that will free your friend and master."

"A vessel? How do you mean?"

"I will explain after. For now, let us deal with you."

Before Merlin could protest, insist that she make the means to cure Arthur first, Hecate began to chant. She spoke lowly, too softly for him to hear, and as she did so, the warlock felt the winds of Larentia swirl slowly around the shrine. Fear held him in place.

_She didn't explain to me how this would work_, he thought nervously, then flinched when a bright white flame, its tips flickering silver, was conjured before him. It hovered, its source invisible, level with his chest. It flickered playfully as Merlin watched with a growing sense of calm.

_What have I to worry about?_ he asked inwardly, scoffing at himself. _I have this flame to protect me_. He reached up to touch it, or tried to. His arms felt too heavy. He contented himself with simply staring into its ivory, bottomless depths.

Hecate's scruff, wheezing chanting grew a little louder as she continued to circle, as sly as a prowling cat. Merlin didn't notice that when she pulled her hands out from either sleeve, her right one was clutching a white-hilted dagger with a transparent, glass-like blade that was narrower than her smallest finger. All Merlin noticed was the visions he was beginning to have.

* * *

_He was in a forest, running wildly and free, wherever he wanted. The comforting, familiar scents of the woods filled his lungs with a feeling of home. He could sense the other wolves running alongside him. They were hunting, together._

* * *

Hecate's spell grew louder, mentioning Larentia several times. The wind picked up. Animals in the forest lifted their heads from feeding, poked their heads from their burrows or otherwise simply stopped what they were doing and froze, anticipative.

Merlin continued to stare into the flame.

* * *

_He could smell the doe now. She was lame in one leg, the result of some past survival with another predator. Now, though, it was slowing her down, making her easy prey._

_Crawling on his belly, he circled the oblivious deer with his kin, falling into position. What he didn't expect however, was the doe lifting her head, detecting danger. Certainly, she had not yet sensed his brethren?_

_Voices. Loud human voices. Coming from the east._

_The doe twitched an ear uneasily, but when silence fell, that was when the air felt most dangerous. _

* * *

Hecate paced around the warlock, making sure his focus was entirely on the flame before standing behind him and placing her splayed hand on the back of his head. He cringed, closing his eyes as though in pain, but his mind was already focused entirely on the flame. Hecate readied the dagger.

* * *

_He ran now, fleeing the humans and their sharp, pointy tools. Some threw things, some swung things, but all aimed for the same goal: to kill any and all who was not one of them._

_Merlin could smell the fear of his kin, and their fear became his own. It was every wolf for himself now. He flinched as two pointy shafts from the crescent-shaped sticks thudded into the tree just above him, then lengthened his stride. There was a burrow nearby, he knew. If he could reach it—_

_A third shaft aimed true. He yelped as he felt it break through skin, muscle and bone, felt blood fill his lungs from his pierced heart. Oh, the pain, the agony! He stumbled, vision failing..._

* * *

Hecate pulled the dagger out of Merlin's chest as he began to fall. He was screaming, yet not of his own volition. It was the werewolf who was screaming, the spirit of the beast roaring with rage. Now the warlock fell onto his back, writhing in utter torment as the beast's blood gushed out of the small wound in his chest, over his heart. Despite its location, very little would have come out because of the type of knife Hecate used. But this wasn't a normal wound on a normal person. Larentia was calling the wolf out.

* * *

_The visions of darkness, swirling with the smell of blood and loam, brightened with every beat of his failing heart. Merlin could see someone, someone he felt he always knew yet had never seen before. She was nice-looking, pretty even, and she was smiling at him. He wagged his tail. She would take care of him, he knew, even as he died. She was the mother wolf, after all._

* * *

Hecate lifted Merlin's eyelid, seeing that it had rolled upwards as though asleep. He wasn't breathing.

Standing, the priestess moved towards the flickering white flame, its silvery tips flaring brighter than before. She cupped them in her hands, relishing the brilliance of them, then brought them to her mouth and inhaled.

She felt the awesome strength of the werewolf even before she had finished breathing it into her blood. She felt arthritic aches dwindle, the fluid in her lungs vanish, her eyesight and smell enhance by thousandfold.

The gift of the Archons...

Hecate called upon the Druid woman, Gabriela. If she was alarmed by the sight of the warlock on the ground, she gave no sign of it as she approached with the Silver Heart.

"Give it to me," she said, hand out for the silver wolf figurine.

Only slightly hesitant, Gabriela obeyed, surrendering the Heart to the priestess.

Once more, Hecate struck up her ancient chant, holding the Heart aloft. Tendrils of light entered the figurine, and it glowed slightly before fading back to silver. It was hot to the touch.

"Tell him to give this to his king," she said, a bit warily. She could feel the diminished powers of Larentia fading, retreating back to her own world. "In his hands, it will activate the magic and lift the blessing." Gabriela accepted the Heart back impassively.

Finally, Hecate looked down at the warlock and knelt by his side. Leaning over, knowing that she would have never been able to do it without the boy's wolf spirit, she kissed his brow and stood again, facing Gabriela.

"Tell him, I have old friends in old places," she said, turning to leave the shrine for the last time. Then she added, over her shoulder, "And tell him, do not fear the call of the Wild. To do so would be to fear his own salvation." Her stride was considerably quicker than before, a lot less painful, a lot more eager. In seconds, she was gone, lost in the woods she had trod within for hundreds of years.

"Thank you," whispered Gabriela, to no one in particular.

* * *

Merlin knew it was gone the moment his chest remembered to breathe. Air whooshed into his lungs so fast he immediately broke down into a coughing fit. He curled onto his side until it eased, then slowly stretched out, looking around.

_What happened? Where's Hecate?_

He realized that he had asked his questions mentally and repeated them aloud.

"She is gone. She had done as you asked and left."

Merlin jumped and whipped his head around. It was Gabriela, standing nearby with the Heart.

"I...but I don't..." _Do I feel different? I do_. His senses were back to normal, and the impulses to hunt and run were gone. He knew it the moment he woke up, and any doubts that had spawned died. "I...I feel..." He put a hand to his chest, where he felt a hot stickiness. He was a little surprised to feel blood, but more surprised to find no wound or pain anywhere.

"Reborn," said Gabriela, nodding. Merlin realized he had never finished his sentence.

"Yeah," he replied, standing cautiously. He glanced around the empty shrine. "So...that's it?"

The Druid passed him the Silver Heart without reluctance. "You have just done a great deed, Emrys. Though you did not know it, but Hecate could have removed the curse of the werewolf without taking it into herself. In fact, if you refused that part of the bargain, she would have still felt obliged to lift it, then destroy the wolf spirit."

Merlin grimaced. "But I didn't know that, so it wasn't really a good deed at all."

Gabriela shrugged. "In any case, she told me to tell you that she has old friends in old places."

Again the warlock paused in confusion, looking down at the Heart. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"Come," said the Druid, ignoring his question. "You must get back to your king. Destiny awaits you."

* * *

**That...sounded corny -_-**

"**Control your emotions. Discipline your mind!" ~ Severus Snape (Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix movie)**


	26. Cursing the Cured

**Yay! Merlin's cured! Now all he has to do is cure Arthur and then everyone can laugh and dance and sing in the fi****eld of flowers and love...!**

***mimics repulsed vomiting***

* * *

~26~ Cursing the Cured

Arthur crashed face-first onto his bed, immediately closing his eyes and surrendering to the blissful oblivion of sleep – only to remember that there was a rock in his riding boot, and it was persistent in its stabbing of his heel. Grumbling, the king rolled onto his back and then slid off the mattress, landing on his rear, his back against the bedpost. Yanking the boot off, he shook the troublesome speck of earth out and let it roll away free, knowing that Merlin would inevitably find it and deal with it before it did anymore harm to the king's foot.

That is, if Merlin came back anytime soon.

_He will_, he told himself. _He will. He's Merlin. He'll manage. Me, on the other hand, will be as grumpy as an old badger if I don't get sleep_ _right_ now.

He tried to smother the wriggling worry birthed by his missing servant, but like a bothersome fly, it only dodged away before returning to its original position, its sporadic buzzing like a cruel taunt.

_Go away_, he tried to tell it. The worry-fly buzzed.

Groaning in reluctance, Arthur forced himself to his feet and dragged his abused body behind the dressing screen, where his night clothes were waiting for him. Pulling them on, though he left the top off as was his wont, he made his way back to the bed, stopping at the window to gaze at the deepening night.

_Blast it, Merlin. Where are you?_

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Merlin slowed to rest the Druid horse, whose sides were heaving from the exertions. For the thousandths time, he checked the knapsack holding the Silver Heart, which bore the cure that would save Arthur. He just had to get it to him.

The sun was fast sinking, casting oblong and mistrustful shadows across the road. They were the reason why Merlin never saw Sophia coming.

"Where the hell have you been?"

The warlock jumped, nearly falling from the saddle and he whirled to see who spoke.

"Sophia! You escaped the Blackhands!"

The Silverblood assassin stepped free of the shadows, nodding. "It wasn't that difficult, to be honest. None of them were too keen to follow me into the woods when there were two werewolves wandering loose." She smiled grimly. "I suppose you've had a few eventful adventures yourself."

Merlin shook his head, trying to retain his excitement. "I was with the Druids. They took me somewhere and—"

"Got yourself cured," Sophia finished. She, too, shook her head. "I don't believe it. What spell did they use? Did they want anything in return? Was it painful? How did it...?"

She rambled on, and Merlin knew that it was for the sake of Rowan. If he could be cured, then so could the former Silverblood leader. The warlock held up his hands to silence her.

"I can't talk now. I have to get back to Camelot. Will you join me?"

Sophia shook her head. "Not now. I need to find the Blackhands again, keep an eye on them. If they learn of what you've accomplished, and they will See if they catch you, then you and your Druid friends would be in danger. But tell me, werewolf—or, Merlin, I should say—can Rowan be cured as well?"

Merlin hesitated. Hecate the priestess was gone, as far as he could tell, having taken his spirit of the wolf and vanished into the woods, to eventually die and be with her Archon forever. It would be nigh on impossible to find her if she didn't want to be found, and she might not be strong enough to cure another curse anyway.

Sophia noticed his hesitation, and deflated slightly. "Oh. All right, then."

"I'm sorry, Sophia," Merlin began, but she waved him off.

"You said you had to leave. So leave," she said, and headed back for the trees.

He had no words, and simply remained silent until he felt the horse had enough rest. Then, he hastened back to Camelot.

* * *

Dusk had come and gone by the time Merlin galloped his horse over the drawbridge and into the city of Camelot. He was recognized and so unhindered on the last stretch to the citadel, and was even given several cheerful waves and joyful exclamations from those who knew him and had thought him lost. He acknowledged their greetings but did not slow his relentless pace.

The horse was frothing at the mouth by the time the warlock leaped from the saddle in the castle's courtyard. He almost abandoned it to be cared for by the stable hands, but he skidded to a halt on the flagstones and took a deep breath to compose himself. Arthur wasn't going anywhere, and the Silver Heart wasn't about to lose its cure. Not only that, he wasn't sure how he was going to approach the king with a magical object without him flying into a rage like a flicked wasp.

Stretching as the aches from being in the saddle for a day caught up with him, Merlin took the reins of the horse and walked it until its legs stopped trembling and its breathing ceased to be laborious. He then led it to the royal stables, where he removed the tack and saddle, then fed, watered, and brushed the beast down. As it happily munched on a nosebag of oats, the servant shifted the knapsack strap on his shoulders – which he hadn't removed throughout the whole journey – and departed the stables, hastening back to the citadel courtyard.

In the late morning of that day, after his long, recuperating nap, Gabriela had wished him well and sent him off with one of the Druid's horses, and the warlock thanked her for everything. The shaman merely smiled at his gratitude, then gently reminded him that his time was as limited as an hourglass's, and Camelot was a hard day's ride away. But Merlin had had one last question to ask of her.

"When you projected yourself into my dreams," he'd said, feeling his horse shift beneath him, "you always came in the ones where I dreamed of this one place..."

"And that place was?"

"I...I don't know. It was a glade that was somehow familiar, like I had been there before, as a child or something. I...called it the Wild because...it seemed right."

Gabriela had smiled, like she knew something he didn't. "Do not fear the call of the Wild, Emrys. To do so would be to fear your own salvation."

Merlin considered that as he took the stairs to the Main Hall three at a time. Why would a glade in a forest be his salvation? That didn't make much sense.

In his pondering, he paused at the front doors. Now arose a new problem: what if he ran into people? It wouldn't do to be delayed before reaching Arthur's chambers, or, if he wasn't there, then somewhere about the castle. But it was his hesitation that brought about his downfall.

"_Merlin?_"

The servant whirled around at the incredulous voice, and saw Elyan ascending the steps, eyes wide in astonishment.

"Merlin! Ha! It _is_ you!" The knight grinned widely, his snowy white teeth flashing in the late dusk. "You old bastard!"

"Elyan—_oof!_" Merlin was surprised as the knight thumped him on the shoulder, making him turn half way around. "I need to find—"

"Where the hell have you been? Arthur and I, we searched for you, but—"

"_Elyan_, I need to find Arthur, immediately. Where is he?"

For a moment, the knight looked puzzled. "Resting in his chambers. We had just returned from a journey to the Silverblood's encampment...What's the rush? Merlin?"

The warlock did not stand around to listen or answer. He yanked open the front doors and dashed down the Hall, swiftly finding a side corridor that was the second shortest route to Arthur's personal chambers. The shortest was too public, and he couldn't afford the time to speak with any more knights. There was every chance that Arthur would change again that evening, and if he did, there was an even stronger chance that he would not become human again.

_Why aren't things ever easy?_ Why? he grumbled inwardly, oblivious to the fact that so many people had said that the past several days. _Damn, if I'm not old when I die, I'll at least_ look _old by the time I do! Arthur and his continuous life of stress and angst and..._difficult-ness_._

_But look on the bright side – I'm cured._

That thought put a slight pause on his next step.

_Ha! I'm_ cured! _Suck on that, difficult-ness!_

He was suddenly much more elated, and his storm towards the king's chambers became more of a gentle, gleeful gust. He gave a bubbly, excessively-cheerful, "Hi!" to a pair of patrolling guards going the opposite way, who glanced back at him, then at each other, blinking like owls.

Once Arthur was cured, the Silverbloods would have no further reason to be there, and those Blackhand dunderheads could flee the land with their tails between their legs for all Merlin cared. There was still Rowan, the monster who'd infected him and the king in the first place, and it was likely that the Silverbloods would be non-too-keen in killing the former leader. Well, they'd have to, or otherwise withdraw and allow the knights to deal with him themselves.

_I'll figure that out later_, Merlin insisted to himself, lengthening his stride as he rounded the corner and beheld the passage with Arthur's private chambers. _I'm crossing this bridge first. It looks nicer anyhow._

"Arthur!" he cried, before he even reached the door. He shouldered one of them open. "Arthur! I have it! I have the—"

He froze, eyes wide, jaw slack. _What in hellfire...?_

A golden-furred werewolf was standing with its back to him in the middle of the king's chambers, breathing with a thunderous sequence of growls, the remains of Arthur's bed clothes in rags and scattered about on the floor.

"Gods," Merlin moaned, his knapsack falling from his shoulder. "I'm too late. Arthur..."

The werewolf turned slowly, as though knowing that the servant had no inclination to run. Amber eyes glowered at him, reflecting the light of the hearth. Then the beast crouched lowly, muscles flexing in preparation. Merlin balked as it pounced, extinguishing the distance between itself and the warlock faster than a raging boar.

There was less than a rat's heartbeat to spare when Merlin threw himself out of the monster's path. With a yelp and a snarl, the beast slammed into the wall across the king's chambers, and it sat there, stunned, before whirling around to face the warlock's retreating back, salivating hungrily.

Merlin was on the verge of screaming his lungs out for help when he skidded to a halt, ten paces from the werewolf.

_The Heart!_ he snapped at himself. _Fool! How could I forget_—

What felt like a spiked battering ram slammed into his side, and he bit his tongue as he smashed into the wall, cracking his skull. He slumped in a daze.

He opened his eyes just in time to see the werewolf bearing down on him, jaws gaped and drooling. Pure instinct took the reins then, and with a golden flash in his irises, an axe from the decorative weapon mount on the wall jerked itself free of its restraints and threw itself at the beast, chopping the air as it spun end over end.

The werewolf must have seen the weapon coming from the corner of its vision, for it faced it before cringing away. The axe handle thwacked over its shoulder, shattering the wood into splinters. The moon-blade head fell and clattered to the ground, useless, but Merlin was already scrambling on all fours for the abandoned knapsack lying only ten paces away, too stunned to straighten properly.

He threw himself the last few feet, but then his heart leaped into his throat to choke him as a giant clawed hand closed on his ankle, stopping him just short of his salvation.

"_No!_" His fingers squeaked on the floor as he fought for nonexistent purchase, crying desperately, "Arthur, stop!" Rolling onto his back, Merlin kicked the beast in the nose, and it paused, perplexed, before growling, the skin wrinkling around its muzzle. Its ears flattened against its skull as it loomed over him, a triumphant, ravenous gleam in its eyes.

Instinct shoved Merlin aside once more, lashing out with magic like a whip. A flaming torch from an iron bracket threw itself at the werewolf, and the beast cringed, its natural fear of fire giving the warlock a few seconds. He wasted none of them.

He squirmed free from beneath the monster and ran, forgetting the Silver Heart, forgetting sense, forgetting that if anyone was to learn that it was the king beneath the fur and claws, doom would fall fast and hard upon Camelot. Right now, Merlin was only concerned with escaping with his limbs.

A loud crashing told him that the beast was now in pursuit, having evaded the torch and still being determined to rip Merlin to shreds. There was a raucous explosion as a hall table was tipped and run over by a three-hundred-pound ball of muscle and fury. A fire brazier was knocked down and tapestries were torn from the wall. The warlock felt his legs thicken and grow weak in raw terror, sounding like there was a herd of angry bulls charging down the corridor behind him.

"Run!" he bellowed at a pausing maid, who heard the werewolf before seeing it and froze in fear. "What are you waiting for?" Merlin snapped. "Get out of here!"

The maid fled down one corridor, and the warlock skidded on the floor in his efforts to go the other. He heard another table being crushed but dared not look back.

_Have to hide...have to hide..._

Merlin flew around the corner and saw two puzzled guards coming towards him on their usual patrol. They stiffened and grasped their halberds upon seeing the hasty servant.

"Run!" he yelled at them, but of course, they didn't.

"Hold it, there, mate!" one commanded, trying to grasp Merlin's arm as he fled past, just as his companion yelped, "Whoa!"

Arthur tore around the corner, claws scrapping against the smooth stone floors, snarling at all three of them.

"Get behind us, boy!" one guard snapped, pushing Merlin back.

"No! You cannot fight it," the warlock insisted, holding his arm and trying to pull him down the corridor with him, but the guard yanked free and charged the king with his companion, halberd raised.

They both lasted all of five seconds, and then Arthur was after Merlin again, golden fur glistening with fresh blood.

"No, no, no," Merlin moaned, turning away from the corpses and fleeing once more.

His advantage was with the narrow, turning corridors. He would race around a corner whenever Arthur drew near enough to pounce, gaining more ground as the large beast had more momentum to interrupt and curb.

Merlin leaped down a set of stairs, finding himself in the older parts of the castle. He warned another set of guards to flee, but could do nothing as Arthur tore them apart, still in pursuit of his initial prey. The warlock tried to incapacitate him – he used magic to pull things off the walls and throw them at the king, but it was useless. He was firing over his shoulder and was panicking, not to mention that his target was extremely fast and durable. If Merlin stopped to take proper aim, he may very well lose his life in the attempt.

He heard the alarm bells as he ran along a balustrade overlooking a tall corridor. He whirled to take the stairs, which turned back on themselves so that their foot was below the balcony. Once he reached the bottom, Arthur appeared at the rail above.

But Merlin was focused on Gwen, who was walking down the corridor with her back to the danger. Gwaine, Leon, and Percival flanked her, all turning when they heard the commotion.

"Run!" Merlin yelled. "It's Arthur, get away—!"

Gwen screamed, and a moment later, the warlock realized that it was more than just the sight of the king as a monster. He glanced over his shoulder to see Arthur leaping from the balcony, jaws gaped and snarling. Merlin stumbled, fighting the urge to go forward and lead the beast to his friends. He had to go another way—

His indecisiveness brought about his downfall. Gwen screamed in horror again as the werewolf finally caught him, finally latched massive, clawed hands on his body and bore him to the ground. He saw a flash of teeth.

"_No!_"

Merlin couldn't hear the knights bellowing in protest. There was only the pounding of his heart as he felt werewolf teeth plunge into his shoulder and neck, hot blood bursting free and spattering everywhere. His scream halted in his throat. His vision flickered. His feeble attempts to push and kick the monster off faltered, too weak to carry on. The beast shook him, and then tossed him aside with a triumphant snarl.

Merlin's back slammed against the wall before he slid to the floor. A sickening red stain flowered on the stone and leaked down where his body smeared it. The pain was so great, so hindering, that he didn't realize the werewolf was gone for several seconds, and instead Gwenevere was crouched by his side, crying. He blinked to clear the blurs that were so avid in clouding his vision, and relief replaced some of the anguish in the queen's features, but only some.

"Merlin? Oh, thank the divines, you're alive!"

The servant moaned and tried to sit up. "Where's Arthur?"

Gwen pushed him back down, immediately removing her shawl and using it to staunch the flow of blood on his ruined shoulder. "I...I used my comb to drive him off."

Merlin looked strangely at her. "Your...comb?"

She glanced away. "It was silver." She held him down as he went to sit up again. "No, stay _still!_ You're very badly hurt."

Even as the warlock fought to get up anyway, he heard a gruff and violent symphony of curses down the corridor, out of sight. His ears were too fuzzy to make anything out clearly, but he recognized the voices of Arthur's knights, and the vile oaths were enough to make him blush.

"Where'd he go?" he grunted feebly, somehow pushing past Gwen's restraints and standing against the wall. He felt his uninjured arm being thrown over someone's shoulder, and his weight shifted to another man in support.

"The knights are after him," Elyan explained. When did he get there?

"He's gone." That was Leon, returning with Gwaine and Percival, all three panting heavily. Their swords were drawn and their eyes wide. "Jumped out a window."

"He'll be terrorizing the lower town by now," said Elyan grimly. To Merlin, he said, "I'll bring you to Gaius—"

"No, I must get to Arthur." Merlin pulled away and did not fall over. He knew why, even though he should be fainting from the blood loss and the shock. "You can't stop him yourself. Not without something to help you."

"You aren't going anywhere looking like _that_," Elyan insisted, and Merlin glowered at him.

"Listen to me, clotpoles. I have the only thing that can stop him now."

"Oh yeah, and what's that?" Leon demanded.

"The Silver Heart."

There was a collective intake of breath, and then the knights spoke all at once.

"There's no time to waste!" Merlin cried. "I'll answer questions later—"

"Where is it?" Gwaine demanded impatiently. "You said you have it, so where is it?"

Merlin blushed. "I...I left it near Arthur's chambers." He smothered his chagrin as the others sighed in exasperation. "You have to get it, quickly. Look for it in a knapsack. It's the only thing that will stop Arthur completely." The warlock was feeling stronger with every moment, as though his ravaged shoulder was healing rapidly on the spot and the weariness from the hard trip was seeping away into the floor. He took a few steps down the corridor. "Bring it outside, find us. I'll hold him as long as I can."

"What do you mean, 'hold him?'" asked Gwen, looking more and more frightened with every step the servant took. "What are you going to do?"

Merlin paused, glancing over his shoulder. "There's no time to explain, Gwen," the warlock replied softly. He wasn't sure if his plan would work – it took about two weeks before he turned for the first time, and it'd only been minutes since he was bitten and re-infected. But the priestess of the Ancient Kingdom, Hecate, had told him that what he was about to do was indeed possible...

He heard someone following him as he limped down the hall, quickly finding the chamber with the broken window, the place where Arthur had escaped the castle from. Already he could feel the werewolf stirring within, preparing itself. He twitched as a spasm of pain wriggled down his back.

He turned to see Gwaine standing at the entrance, looking fearful. Merlin nodded to him. "Find the Heart, stop Arthur." He groaned and doubled over, razors slashing at his innards viciously. "You might want to close the door," he said.

* * *

******Okay. I'll admit it. I need reviews. I'm sorry but I need to say it. This story sucks, really ****bad. I don't like asking but I need to know what people think. And I've used the word need too many times here -.-**

"**Here we go again." ~ Rick O'Connell (The Mummy)**


	27. No Time for Pain

**Oh, thank you thank you thank you, to DifferentShirley, Fiwen9430, IndiaMoore, Tolleren, caldera32, Rachel McN, and wolvesarecool for your fan****_tast_****ical reviews! Because of all y'all, I can update sooner than I can usually afford :D**

* * *

~27~ No Time for Pain

The knights and queen fled down the hall as they heard Merlin turning into the feral beast they had all come to fear. Gwaine charged far ahead, racing towards Arthur's chambers, the place the servant said he'd left the Silver Heart to stop the king.

It was risky, they knew, to let _two_ werewolves run free, but if Merlin could stall Arthur and lead him to a place where Gwaine could reach him with the Heart, there was a chance of capturing them both and escorting them from the city, minimizing bloodshed.

Over the din of the warning bells, he heard Merlin's beast howl. Gwaine ignored the sound and concentrated on getting to Arthur's rooms as fast as possible. He took the stairs three at a time, ignoring anyone who tried to stop him and ask questions.

Just a little further...One more hall...There!

His boots slid on the floor as he halted before Arthur's private chambers, but before he even straightened, his heart plunged to visit his toes.

There was no knapsack.

He glanced up and down the hallway, but only saw a fallen torch and an axe, oddly enough. Gwaine, near panic, checked inside the room, then around the corners at either end of the corridor. Nothing. The Heart was gone.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Merlin leaped from the window and landed in the castle square, an irrepressible howl emitting from his maw. He crossed the courtyard and bounded up to the portcullis, but stopped when he saw that it had been shut. With minimal effort, he climbed, swift as a monkey, up a scaffolding and over the wall, scaring the sentinels on the battlements. He had to get to Arthur.

The warlock-turned-werewolf ignored every screaming person in his way as he followed his nose deeper into the city. What he saw littering the streets appalled him – Arthur had left many mangled corpses in his wake. He saw dead soldiers, farmers, peasants...It was a massacre.

_If the people learn the truth, the city will tear itself apart_, he thought, jumping over a knot of guards and surprising them all. Reaching an abandoned square, he decided that this place was as good as any.

Trying to ignore the alluring scent of fresh blood, Merlin threw back his head and howled as loud and as challenging as he could. To follow Arthur would take too long and more people would die. He was going to have to draw Arthur to him. For several moments, all he heard was the clanging warning bells and the faded screams of the horrified, but then his wolfish ears perked at the sound of a return cry. He roared back, roughly in the direction from where the king's call came, somehow knowing the exact right pitch to issue a challenge to the rival beast.

As the second retaliation split the night, Merlin took a single bound and landed on the chimney of a smithy, where he scanned the the rooftops for his adversary, once friend. It didn't take long for him to see the golden-furred werewolf charging up a nearby street, bypassing all he came across in favour of an enemy alpha.

Merlin wished that it had never come to this. To fight his best friend when only he himself knew what was truly going on was a nightmare come true, but he had no choice.

Arthur skid to a halt in the centre of the square, snarling to the high heavens, his ivory teeth dripping the blood of innocents. Merlin pounced.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Percival and Leon were astonished when the werewolf, once Arthur, suddenly stopped charging towards them and listened to the howl echoing in the distance. Then the king retaliated with a challenge of his own, and set off towards where the initial cry had emerged. The two knights glanced at each other, then kicked their horses after Arthur, tired and depleted as they were.

They had hoped, when they first started to chase the werewolf, that they would be able to stall him long enough for him to change back, not knowing that there would be several hours before that would happen. Their blades had hit the beast numerous times, but they, along with everyone else who had tried, could not penetrate his thick hide, and their attempts had only made Arthur more angry.

"Gwaine nowhere in sight, and therefore, no Silver Heart. But now Merlin has turned, too," Leon moaned, as his horse hurtled over a spilt cart of potatoes. He winced when his injured leg jerked painfully. "Hell on earth."

"Hell on earth," Percival agreed, and did not slow.

They heard before they saw the fight, and their hearts grew heavy as the horrific sounds of the battling beasts filled the air like a storm. Rounding a bend, they saw the whirl of golden and black fur in the centre of an abandoned square, clawing and biting and tearing at each other with wild abandon. The two knights cursed, unable to do anything. Street dogs they could handle, but this...

The black werewolf, Merlin, batted Arthur's golden form as the king tried to latch his snapping jaws around the others' leg, knocking him down slightly. Then Arthur slashed across Merlin's chest, and the servant growled before jumping and kicking him back several paces. Before the king could recover, Merlin lunged forward and commenced a sequence of scratches and bites that put his opponent on the defence.

"We have to stop this!" Leon yelled helplessly as Arthur recovered and lashed out in retaliation, his own attack making Merlin yelp in pain. Then the king latched salivating jaws on the back of his servant's neck and bore him to the ground, trying to force him into submission. But Merlin bit the other werewolf's foot and refused to let go until Arthur did, which didn't take long as the paw tore open.

As the terrible, painful spectacle raged on, the knights noticed several people emerging from homes cautiously to watch in open astonishment.

"What the hell are they gawping at?" Percival growled, trying to control his dancing horse.

"I'm sure they don't know themselves," muttered Leon, deep in thought. How were they going to stop this? He saw no obvious solution, let alone an obscure one. Not without Gwaine. Where the devil was he?

Just then, Merlin yelped and made a full retreat, supporting a slashed forearm, from whence gushed an alarming amount of blood. Arthur's werewolf snarled in triumph and didn't let the other get far before continuing his relentless and brutal attack. Merlin fell into a duck and weave tactic, which surprised the knights. It was almost as though the beast was _thinking_.

"We have to _do_ something!" Percival snapped. "They'll tear each other apart if this continues!"

"Thanks for pointing that out, detective!" Leon barked back, just as Merlin renewed his battle in a frenzy. The only way they could now tell the werewolves apart was their different coloured fur. If they were in their right minds, if they knew what they were doing...

"My lords! What should we do?"

The two knights jumped and turned to see three soldiers with spears at the ready. They looked terrified, but prepared for anything.

"That's what we're trying to figure out," Percival replied grimly, facing the fight. Merlin was attempting to pin Arthur down, while the king was working on biting out the others' throat.

"We could distract them," plotted Leon, brow creased in concentration. "If we can separate them, then we can trap them, and then..." He winced as Merlin had his ear torn, and the servant whined and growled as he ducked away. "Gods..."

"Sergeant, order your archers to line on those rooftops," Percival barked to the middlemost soldier, recognized by his crest. "Aim and fire on my orders."

"As you command, my lord!" the sergeant saluted, and departed.

Percival ignored Leon's incredulous look. "They won't – can't – hurt them. Like you said, we need to distract them and get them apart."

"With _what?_"

"I'm still working on that bit."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Merlin tried to ignore the tearing pain in his left ear, unable to tell if the whole thing had been ripped off by Arthur's gnashing teeth or not. His upper body dodged back as the king tried to slash at him, then lunged forward, jaws snapping, forcing the other to retreat.

_Come on, Gwaine_, he growled inwardly, battering his master back across the square. _Get your drunken arse down here!_ It was getting harder and harder for him to retain control over the werewolf, but he had to. He _had_ to.

Arthur feinted beneath the next blow and managed to claw three deep gashes in Merlin's abdomen, but he tried to suppress the pain beneath his determination. He had been covered with countless scratches, but so had the king, their claws able to do what regular weapons could not. That doesn't necessarily make it a good advantage.

Arthur was limping heavily now, due to the damage the warlock had done to his paw, but he seemed to be immune to the pain, a dark hunger and a desire to bring his challenger into submission hard in his eyes. Merlin didn't want to feel any more pain, nor did he want to inflict it on his oldest friend. He retreated, step by step, forcing himself to not meet Arthur's gaze. He wasn't surrendering, only trying to show his wish to halt the conflict. As he suspected, it didn't work, and he received a new slice across his face for his troubles, _just_ missing his eye.

A flash of the werewolf within caught a foothold and forced Merlin to shoot forwards and latch his jaws around the others' shoulder, close to the neck, but then the servant smothered it and kicked Arthur away from himself, snarling ominously. The warning was discarded. The king shot forward and then jumped, bloodied teeth bared. Merlin dodged to the side and the other beast flew past him, crashing into the wall of a house. Yelping once, Arthur swiftly recovered and turned, snarling. If a werewolf could feel embarrassment, then this one did.

A young girl had screamed when the king crashed into the building, and she screamed again as he turned towards her, standing in the doorway of a house. The werewolf snorted, and Merlin saw his muscles tense for a pounce. With a warning yowl, the warlock intercepted the king's route just as he lunged at the girl. Air whooshed from his chest as they collided, and they both fell to the ground in a tangle. Arthur's tufted wolf tail was wavering slightly before his eyes, and he had the sudden inclination to bite it.

The king howled and tried to leap away, only to yelp again as his body went one way and his tail remained in Merlin's jaws. The warlock held on in the awkward position while Arthur attempted to run away, with minimal success, of course. It must have looked quite comical, but Merlin wasn't about to start laughing.

_Gwaine, where are you, dammit?_

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

"You want us to find a knapsack, my lord?" asked the guard, who was trying to not appear baffled.

"Yes, a knapsack. A large pouch to hold things in with straps for your shoulders." Gwaine didn't mean to sound rude, but why was it so difficult to get people to help him find a knapsack?

"What does it look like?" the guard asked. "What colour?"

"It's...Well, it's...I don't know what colour it is! All I know is that there's something inside," the knight replied impatiently. "A silver animal statue. About this big, of a wolf. Find it, quickly!"

The three guards hurried off, all failing to conceal their irritated confusion, but Gwaine didn't care. The Heart must be found!

He hurried back to Arthur's chambers, planning on having one last look. The sack couldn't have just picked itself up and walked away! He'd already checked the royal suite, just in case that was the room Merlin meant, but the place was neat and tidy, whilst Arthur's private rooms showed signs of a struggle. If the Heart was anywhere, it was there. Unless it was taken.

It was during the latter thought that Gwaine saw a flitting figure dash across the entrance to his corridor, dark and furtive. If that wasn't something to be suspicious of...

"OI!" he called. "Stop!"

He ran, rushing around the corner just in time to see the figure disappear into another hall. Hot in pursuit, Gwaine soon came to realize that his quarry was unfamiliar with the castle, for she quickly found herself trapped at a dead end. There was something in her hands.

"Stay where you are," Gwaine ordered, drawing his sword and squinting to see into the figure's hood. He'd known that she was female by her figure, but now he saw the stag emblem on her front. She was a Silverblood.

"I mean no harm," she said quickly, holding up a knapsack before her with one arm. The other one looked stiff, as though in a cast. "I came for this."

"You took Merlin's knapsack!" Gwaine barked, striding forwards to take it. The Silverblood let him snatch it away, and made no move to arm herself.

"I took it because of what it contains," she said, but Gwaine cut her off.

"Your actions have wasted irreplaceable time!" he snapped. "Have you any idea what you've done?"

"I was trying to help!" she protested, throwing her hood back. Gwaine didn't recognize her.

"Who are you?"

"My name is Sophia Silverblood. I was trying to get the Heart and stop the werewolf, but I got lost. I didn't know you were after it, too."

"How the blazes did you get in here?"

Sophia shrugged. "Not that difficult really. Especially with the guards in a mess." She glowered. "Well, what are we waiting for? Merlin needs our help!"

"Wait, you know—?"

"Come _on_, you fool!"

Gwaine let her run with him as they headed for an exit, conscious of how much time was wasted, not knowing how much they had left.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Merlin winced as claws like razors sliced down his back, but still he did not relinquish his hold on Arthur's tail. Ridiculous as it felt, it was stalling the king, letting Gwaine draw ever closer with the Silver Heart.

_Hurry, hurry, hurry!_

Suddenly, Arthur kicked back with his uninjured foot, and the warlock felt more than one rib give as the paw contacted his side. He could not withstand the pain this time, and released the king's tail, yelping. With a howl of triumph, Arthur whirled around and knocked him over, pinning him against the city square's cobblestones. Merlin tried to kick him away. Despair clouded his vision as the king attempted to rip his throat out.

_It's _me, _clotpole!_ he roared inwardly, knowing that it wouldn't matter. _Please, stop!_

His side throbbed, his ravaged shoulder bled, the cuts and bruises bombarding his body gave him the illusion of having tumbled down a ragged mountain. But he fought on, both holding the werewolf within under control and preventing Arthur from disemboweling him. He kicked him away, and then prepared to keep him back.

That was when Rowan came.

* * *

The presence of the third werewolf threw the first two to a standstill. The silvery-grey veteran perched majestically on the roof of a tannery, fur gleaming in the moonlight, howling a challenge at them both. Arthur quailed, clearly remembering his last encounter with Rowan, but then he stepped away from Merlin, eyes never straying from the newcomer. The warlock, in turn, refused to show his pain and stood, growing deep in his throat warningly.

"Fire!"

Merlin flinched as half a dozen bolts twanged free of their crossbows and zipped straight at Rowan. The quarrels struck, but did minimal harm, and the grey werewolf merely snarled at the inconvenience as he yanked the only arrow that managed to pierce his hide out of his chest. Then he jumped from the roof gracefully, landing on all fours in the square and barely pausing before bounding straight for Arthur.

Without thinking, Merlin shot forward to intercept the bigger beast. He was easily swatted aside for his troubles, and he hit the cobblestones as Rowan jumped on the king, yowling for blood.

Already stirred into a frenzy, Arthur fought back veraciously, yet he was still outweighed and out-experienced, and Rowan would have ripped him to bloody pieces if Merlin hadn't intervened.

Roaring furiously, the warlock pounced on the stronger beast's back and clung on like a limpet, jaws latched around his mane of silver fur. Rowan tried to shake him off, but was distracted by Arthur's reprimanding assault. For a moment, Merlin thought that they would be able to beat the new arrival into submission together, but then a second wave of bolts hit them like a deadly rain.

One quarrel pierced Merlin's arm, and he couldn't help but relinquish his hold on Rowan in agony. The other werewolf seized the opportunity to throw him like an unbroken horse would, ignoring his own arrow-induced injuries.

While Rowan was distracted, Arthur whirled into a frenzied attack, startling his foe for the span of a few seconds.

_Have to stop this!_ Merlin thought anxiously. _Dash it all, where's Gwaine?_

Finally, as what inevitably comes with all wild animal fights, one werewolf surrendered and made a full retreat. It could only be expected that it was Arthur, for he was too weak for Rowan, too green. His once golden fur, the same colour as his human hair, was matted red and black with the congealing blood oozing from countless wounds covering his muscular body.

_I did that to him_, Merlin thought nauseously, frozen in place as Rowan chased Arthur to the rooftops. Then he realized what was happening and flinched. _No! They mustn't get away!_

With one final scan for Gwaine, hoping in vain that he would emerge from any of the streets at that moment, he bounded once and landed on the nearest roof. From there, he tailed Rowan and Arthur, ignoring his cracked ribs and throbbing body. There was no time for pain.

* * *

"**We are both part of the same great game, Gabriel. But we need not find ourselves on opposing sides of the board!" ~ Count Dracula (Van Helsing)**


	28. Refuge with Fallen Kings

**This chapter is a bit of a filler. I wasn't sure how to put it any other way than how it has come out, for I wanted it to remain realistic in the way that Merlin handles his current predicament.**

**Ha! Realistic.**

* * *

~28~ Refuge with Fallen Kings

Rowan managed to catch Arthur twice because of superior speed and strength, not to mention the absence of injury. Both times, Merlin would distract the grey werewolf, giving the king time enough to make his escape. He wasn't sure what he was going to do once they left the city and reached the forest, for he couldn't stop even one of them for long, let alone both. But what else could he do? His plan had failed. All he could hope to achieve now was either kill Rowan or at least hold him off long enough to let Arthur get away. Both very precarious endeavours.

Arthur topped the battlements of the outer walls of the city. He wasted no time in dropping down four stories to the grassy ground below and bolting for the trees. Rowan followed suit a moment later, with Merlin slightly after.

The silver werewolf began to catch up at the edge of the forest. With a spurt of strength, Merlin lunged forward and managed to bite Rowan's tail, just as he had Arthur's, before the monster could catch the king a third time. This new interruption was the last straw.

Rowan whirled about and slashed at the side of Merlin's face. The blow was more powerful than the strength of three bears, and the warlock was stunned as he crashed to the ground. He was _just_ fast enough to raise an arm and protect his neck as Rowan lunged to bite, giving him the time to recuperate and lash back.

The hellish din they made as they chomped and tore at each other would put any dog fight to shame. Rowan's thoughts were to kill. Merlin's, to distract. Blood half-blinded him but still he battled on, both the beast before him and the beast within. He seriously contemplated on just letting his internal wolf take over, but the thought of having no control at all scared him too much.

_I just have to get him in the right spot!_ he growled inwardly.

Rowan's foot paw caught him in the side, near his broken ribs, and he cringed away, yelping. Merlin tried to retreat then, for enough was enough. He could only pray that Arthur had reached a safe distance as he dodged around the other werewolf's next strike and bolted for the forest. Rowan was on his tail immediately, but the warlock used the trees to his advantage. He wove in and out of the trunks, preventing a clear line of attack from Rowan. A peculiar sensation numbed his pain and he was able to put on a fresh burst of speed. Foliage was crushed and torn beneath his feet, leaving a very clear trail in his wake. There wasn't much he could do about that.

Rowan snarled in frustration as he noticed that he was falling behind. Invigorated, Merlin felt all pain melt away as he bounded over a stream. He knew this place.

_Go that way...A bit further...There!_ Sure enough, a pair of statues, nearly green in the forest's grasp, marked the beginning of the Valley of the Fallen Kings. Merlin made eagerly for the narrow crevice slicing into the earth, only to stop and sniff worriedly. An instinct, so pungent and alien that he figured it had to be that of the werewolf, urged him not to go in there.

_But I must. I have to escape!_ He could hear Rowan gaining. There were saplings and bushes being rustled and crushed just beyond the immediate foliage. Growling, Merlin slipped into the Valley, ignoring the uneasiness. He has, after all, been unsettled by the secret place since the first time he'd set foot in it.

Finally, he risked a glance back just before the first bend. His knees weakened as he saw Rowan charging for the entrance, but gave a wolfish sigh of relief when the beast stopped, scattering old leaves as he skidded to a halt. He howled in frustration, pacing before the ravine opening. His instincts were stronger than Merlin's, more animal.

Without thoughts of taunting, which would only serve to antagonize Rowan and encourage him to enter, Merlin turned tail and fled further into the forbidden place. He did not stop until the pain forced him to.

An unbidden whimper escaped his throat as he sat on his haunches beneath a tree. The metallic stench of his own blood clogged his nostrils, and then he noticed that there was actual blood clogging his nostrils. His tongue snaked out of his mouth and licked his muzzle. He barely restrained himself from licking his other wounds as well.

_Ooh, it hurts_.

He curled up in a hollow made by the roots of the twisted tree, tail tucked, beastly instincts warring with human mind. The instincts wanted him to act like nothing was wrong, to not show weakness to anything that may want to take advantage of him, while the mind refused to ignore the utter agony it knew was slowly killing the body. In his attempts to smother the werewolf within him, Merlin sided with his mind and suffered.

_Turn human_, he told himself. _Turn human and Heal what you can. Anything shallow enough_...

But would he be strong enough as a human? What if it was solely the werewolf's extraordinary strength keeping him alive? And what if Rowan or even Arthur comes by after all?

Merlin growled through his pain. He shouldn't have gone so far into the city to find the king. That must have been what prevented Gwaine from getting to them in time with the Silver Heart.

He snorted. What's done was done. He'd learned years ago that worrying over that which cannot change was about as fruitful as trying to grow a crop in the snow. He has to make do with what happened. What other choice had he?

_So what_ do_ I do?_

Once more, he contemplated on turning back into his normal body. The problem remained—not to mention that he didn't fancy running around in the forest like a wild man with no clothes on—that he may be too weak to survive if he did so. Well, it was a risk he would have to take.

If he could find something to wear, he would turn back human, Heal what he could, then go find Arthur. The king, after all, would stay a werewolf for only a few more hours; with his recovered, extraordinary sense of smell, Merlin would be able to track him well enough.

_It's only Rowan that I have to worry about_.

He shuddered in pain as he uncurled his torn body and got back to his paw-like feet. He took a step, swayed, then continued on. A branch brushed against his head and he whimpered as it caught on his ripped ear.

_Don't be a wimp!_ he snapped at himself, and took a few more experimental steps, his paws barely making a sound on the moist vegetation carpeting the forest floor. He realized that he could walk fine without passing out from pain and moved a little quicker, using his arms to gain speed. One forearm had been slashed open by Arthur, but he did what he could to ignore it and lengthened his stride.

Soon he was running like a wolf, bounding over what he couldn't charge through, nose scoping for unfamiliar scents. The animal drive within him kept him going for over an hour, seeking shelter and safety. He knew that the chances of finding anyone in the secret Valley of the Fallen Kings were minimal, so when the boundaries passed underfoot, he began his search in earnest, ears pricked and muzzle to the ground.

What must have been at least three miles vanished before he smelled smoke. Giving a involuntary sniff and growl of anticipation, he turned towards the source. Something caught his eye as he broke through a wall of tall grasses and stopped to gather his bearings on a path, a human trail by the smell of it. It was a sign that lured his attention, nailed to a tree with large letters declaring, _King's hunting grounds. Poaching prohibited_.

Merlin didn't like hunting, but he didn't like petty little men insulting the king by trespassing on his land either. And the smoke was definitely coming from within the king's land.

Now only moving on his foot paws, he stalked along the path until the tangy smoke faded. Turning back, he started to make circles, going wider and further away from a central point until the location of the fire was unmistakable. He made sure that he was downwind before creeping through the foliage, closer to the camp.

He saw the flicker of a low flame just after he heard the undertone of hushed voices. He couldn't see the smoke, so the wood used must have been dry; there was nothing to alert Camelot with. With the sharp scent of clear smoke and the muskiness of animal furs, there was also unwashed bodies and at least two horses. That meant two men.

A rumble rolled in Merlin's chest. Two men were nothing. He stalked closer, silent until there was only a bush and a few trees in the way. He saw the two poachers near the fire, roasting something over the flames. A low ground tent was struck between a few trees about three metres from the fire and a pair of unsaddled horses were tethered not far from that, their comforting, musty smell thick in Merlin's nose. It was they who alerted the poachers of the danger.

Having sensed something amiss, their heads perked, ears erect and nostrils flared. One of them whickered, but the poachers paid no heed. The other one stamped, tail swishing, then neighed with unease. Only then did the men raise their heads and look over to them. Over to them, and away from where Merlin hid.

His involuntary growl gave away his position just before he struck. The poachers, expecting a bear or large wolf, immediately snatched up their bows. To their dismay, and Merlin's triumph, they had unstrung them earlier that night, not expecting to be attacked by any beast.

With a savage yowl, the warlock burst through the last bushes and charged into the camp. The men screamed almost as loudly and shrilly as the two horses as they abandoned their useless bows and drew machetes. A wolfish grin stole Merlin's features as he leered down at them both, the beast blood within him making him merciless and cruel with his teasing.

One of the poachers made to slash with his machete, but with a roar, Merlin swung an arm and knocked him flying. He soared over the fire and landed with a grunt near the tent, but the servant's attention was now locked on the second man, who immediately tried to flee for the cover of the forest. Merlin was on him in an instant. Leaping up and forward, he knew his timing was just right as his foot paws landed on the poacher's back. The man's scream was cut off as he fell flat on his face, the full weight of a werewolf knocking the air from his chest.

Growling with adrenaline, Merlin stepped off of him and grasped him by the coat with one hand. His heart pounded with the thrill of the fight, the helplessness of his prey as he squirmed within his grasp.

_It would be so easy, so fun, to just ripe him into bloody, screaming p_—

He stopped, blinking. Was he just contemplating killing this man? Criminal that he was? That wasn't what he'd set out to do at all.

The poacher was frozen with fear, wild eyes meeting Merlin's as the warlock lifted him to inspect him. He looked pathetic, underfed and unshaven.

_If I were human right now_, Merlin said inwardly, hackles rising and ears falling flat, _he would have killed me without a second thought_. The skin around his muzzle bunched as he growled, and the poacher squeaked, tears now running freely down his filthy cheeks.

"G-good doggy," he simpered. Then he started to blubber something, and it took Merlin a moment to realize that he was praying.

_If I kill him, he will never have a chance to learn from this or change his ways. If I let him go, he may even tell all his little friends to never insult the king by tramping around his private hunting grounds again_.

With a final snort in the poacher's face, Merlin threw him into a tree. The man yelped, but was immediately silent as his skull contacted the trunk. He slumped to the ground and the warlock turned his attention on the other poacher. To his satisfaction, the trespasser was already fleeing, cutting loose one of the halters of a horse and vaulting onto its back. The steed wasted no time in whirling about and charging into the darkness. As for the other one, it squealed and bucked, trying to tear itself free with no success.

_The poacher probably left it to hold my attention and give him more of a chance to escape_, Merlin though snidely, stalking towards the poor beast. With one slash of his claws, the rope was sliced away from the tree and the horse fled, pounding hooves fading with every heartbeat. Merlin hoped that it wouldn't accidentally break a leg in a hole, and turned back to the first poacher, who was lying by the tree that had knocked him out.

Blood was oozing from a wound on his head, and Merlin had to tear his eyes away.

_I will not eat this man. I will not eat this man. I will not eat this man._

He focused his attention on his own injuries, the pain he felt, the exhaustion. All at once, the urge to hunt and rip and kill melted into the dormant corners of his mind. His heart eased and his hackles fell. His rumbling breath calmed, and then jerked as he started to feel himself returning to his natural form.

He had to lie there on the ground for several minutes. He was right – it was only in the body of the wolf that he was strong enough to move, let alone stand. Wounds that seemed so trivial and were easily ignored now caused him the most agony. His ear was almost gone, hanging on by a few flaps of raw flesh. Blood was dripping into his eye by the long scratches that ran down one side of his face, mixing with the pain-wrought tears. The stub of a bolt stuck out of his upper right arm and his foot felt torn apart.

What hurt the most was the bloody mass of torn flesh on his left shoulder, the remains of Arthur's bite. It oozed pus and red fluids, and with every drop of blood that fell, a drop of energy went with it. To Merlin's horror, he found that he could no longer lift his left arm. The tendons and muscle were too badly damaged.

His right hand was trembling as he passed it over a shallow gash in his pectoral experimentally. "_Res__ą__n__ę__sco_," he whispered coarsely, and the wound stitched itself back together, the raw, angry seams melting into a pale scar. He did the same for a few more injuries, including his ear and the bolt wound, but dared not touch his shoulder just yet. The severed tendons and torn muscle could not be waved away with simple magic and still work afterwards. Something this complex required more, much more, and if he made a mistake, it would cost him the use of his arm.

In any case, he was too tired to continue. There were still gashes on his legs, arms, and face, but the energy consumed by both blood loss and use of Healing magic was taxing him dearly. He pulled himself towards the unconscious poacher and pulled off a scarf that he'd been using as a belt, tying it as best he could around his wounded forearm and staunching the blood flow. Then he noticed the saddlebags around the other side of the fire, near the ground tent, and started to crawl with one arm towards them. Every inch hurt, and he collapsed more than once. But, determined, he laboured on, struggling to not pass out.

Before he knew it, he had reached the poacher's supplies and was rooting around inside for bandages. The coarse feeling of old linen soon brushed his fingers, and he yanked them out, grimacing when a dead rabbit came with them. He knew that the chances of infection by now had increased by tenfold, but he nearly used them to cover his shoulder anyway when he saw the kettle by the fire. Poachers needed water as well.

He groaned at the thought of crawling all the way over to it when he had already passed it on his way to the saddlery, so he called upon his magic once more. The kettle floated from its spot near the fire, into his waiting hand, and with another spurt of magic, the water within it boiled.

Merlin unravelled the strips of linen and prepared to shove them into the water, but as he did so, a curved bone needle and spool of thread tumbled out.

_Lucky me_, he thought, not sure if it was sarcasm or not.

He finished putting some linen strips into the boiling water and then pulled himself so that he was against a tree. He gasped a few times, blinking to banish the stars that exploded across his vision as he moved his left arm. Taking the needle, he threaded it with magic – it would have been impossible to do if one hand couldn't cooperate – and dipped it into the water to sterilize it.

The task before him was a daunting one, and he wracked his mind for any magic he could think of that would numb the pain. Once he had two simple words, he hauled his exhausted right arm up and passed his hand over the ruined shoulder.

"_T__orp__ĕ__t d__ö__lor__ę__s_," he grunted, his eyes flashing gold, and he gave a sigh of relief as the throbbing agony subsided immensely from the whole limb.

_Why didn't I do that earlier?_

It took a lot of courage on his part, for seeing a pointy needle pass in and out of one's flesh was never something to remain calm over. He managed to sew up the ugly gash on his forearm and then stitch close what he could on his shoulder. To his dismay, he felt he still couldn't move it properly. He was going to have to make a cast for it soon.

When he finished, he dried each long strip of sterilized linen with magic one by one, and wrapped up the stitched wounds. He winced. Every time he moved, blood seeped to stain the bandages red. There was nothing that could be done for that.

_Maybe I could ask the Druids to Heal this for me_, he thought, mind muggy with fatigue. He didn't fancy a lifetime with a crippled arm.

Only then did he finally root around the saddlery for clothes and food. He dressed, ate, and drank all the contents of two water skins he found before binding and gagging his prisoner. When he was sure that the man was secure, he crawled into the low tent. He didn't think the other poacher was going to return.

* * *

"**Pain can be controlled - you just disconnect it." ~ Kyle Reese (The Terminator) **


	29. Into the Darkling Woods

**Well, tonight's the night. The last Merlin episode...ever. Damn, it feels so...surreal, so...I can't even describe the sensation. **

**I wish I could give it a more ceremonious farewell but this is just another chapter to a mediocre story, a meagre, pathetic toss of words compared to the sixty-five unforgettable tales wrought by the minds of geniuses and artists, geniuses with twists of humour and artists with eyes for peerless characters.**

**I will never forget the young farm boy who first stepped into Camelot not knowing that he was destined to be more than a simple physician apprentice, nor will I ever let the spoiled brat of a prince, who turned into the most noble of kings, to fade from memory like a useless lecture.**

**Keep the fandom alive. Remember Merlin.**

* * *

~29~ Into the Darkling Woods

Gwaine rode hard into the woods, following Sophia Silverblood closely. Leon, Elyan, and Percival were on their heels, all on the same mission. Their horses' pace lagged considerably but they kept at it with their riders' urging.

"How do you plan to track them in the dark?" the knight demanded over the rumbling hooves, ducking beneath a branch he didn't see until it was three feet from his face.

"Impossible to miss the tracks," she called back over her shoulder, and it took a while for Gwaine to realize what she meant. The torn foliage and scratched tree trunks revealed a lot. But they may just as well be following a wild boar.

"All three of them?"

"No, just one."

"Who?"

"I don't know."

_Well, that's helpful_, Gwaine thought ruefully. "We still need to slow! We'll kill a horse at this rate, if we don't behead ourselves on a branch first!"

Sophia begrudgingly agreed and slowed her horse, which snorted deeply with relief. The others were quick to follow suit.

The trees grew ever more dense as they pressed on, the moon and stars outlining broken branches, crushed bushes and flattened grass where one of the werewolves had charged through.

"Who do you think it is?" asked Leon quietly, just loud enough for Sophia to hear.

The Silverblood had the Heart ready on her lap, and she was stroking it gently. "I really can't say. This one retained its course after leaving Camelot, while the others had split off. I'm guessing Rowan turned to chase either the servant or the king at that point. Our best guess would have to be that the servant annoyed Rowan enough to make him chase him instead of Arthur. I think we're following the king."

"_Think_ isn't the same as _know_," Gwaine said flatly, but recognized her logic. Not for the first time, duty collided with friendship as his thoughts continued to roil. "I hope Merlin's okay."

"It was strange," Percival muttered. "When he fought Arthur, he seemed almost...I don't know. Like he was—"

"Thinking?" interjected Leon.

"Yeah. It sounds crazy, but I could have sworn he fought a little less like a stupid killer and more like a—"

"Smart killer?" said Gwaine, twisting in his saddle to view his companion. "You can't be thinking that Merlin had control over the werewolf blood."

"Is that possible?" asked Leon, aiming at Sophia, who shrugged.

"I have never heard of anything like that," she said simply.

"You said he'd been cured. Had he?" Gwaine demanded suddenly.

The Silverblood looked away. "If that was the case, it no longer matters. Merlin was bitten again."

"But..." Percival ran a hand over his close-cropped hair. "It took them both two weeks to turn for the first time. How would Merlin be able to change so early, if he had indeed been cured?"

Sophia had no answer to this.

They left the horses when the forest became too dense to ride in. Swords drawn, they crept in single file along the destructive werewolf's path, eyes wide for anything amiss. Once they heard a howl, and they bunched together, back to back in a defensive position. Then silence fell and they continued on their way, albeit even more cautiously.

Gwaine's mouth was dry. He cleared his throat, and at the same time, a branch rustled to the right. For a moment, the thought he'd imagined it, but Sophia was facing that direction, silver-bladed sword at the ready.

More motion sounded, to the left this time, and everyone knew it now.

"Wolves?" whispered Leon, pivoting on his uninjured leg. His arrow wound slowed him, slowed them all, tremendously, despite his determination to hold a quick pace.

"Pheasants," replied Percival tersely. "Keep going."

Further rustling and the distinctive thud of footsteps on hardened mud. It wasn't pheasants stalking them.

Gwaine stepped forward. "By order of the king's men, show yourselves!"

Leaves rustled, more footsteps, dark shapes dashing through the foliage. Definitely not pheasants. Or wolves for that matter. The knights and Sophia stood back to back in a defensive circle, eyes scanning everything outlined by the silvery moonlight.

Suddenly, Sophia blurted something coarse and angry in a foreign language, sounding like a challenge. The stalkers in the woods stopped all at once, throwing a blanket of silence over their little section of woodland.

Gwaine held his breath, then tensed as someone emerged from the bushes. In the dim light, he managed to make out a well dressed man, who padded up to the knights like a self-satisfied lynx. Gwaine recognized him from that fateful day two weeks ago, when the knights and soldiers of Camelot set an ambush for the Blackhand cult. He recognized him as the man they had sought to capture, only for his brother, Jonathan Vane, to interfere and be arrested in his stead. Smiling like a shark, the man bowed, but Gwaine figured that it was out of mockery, not respect.

"Argus Vane, my lords and lady, at your service." When the cult master straightened, Gwaine noticed that his eyes kept flickering at Sophia's hand, which was slightly behind her, holding the Silver Heart. "And what are you lovely folks doing out here on this fine evening?"

Gwaine had seen gold teeth less false than this Vane. He glowered and stepped forward, sword raised.

"You have transgressions to answer to, Argus Vane."

The cult master smiled wider. "Of course, of course, and what—?" He paused as a sound emerged from somewhere behind him. They all paused. Something was coming.

"Make ready," Leon hissed, balancing on his good leg as he crouched in a ready position.

_Ready for what?_ Gwaine asked inwardly, which he thought odd, seeing as he knew perfectly well what. Those were snarls they had heard. Snarls, and now a long, drawn out howl.

Arthur was near.

The Blackhands looked around in confusion, even Vane, while the knights and Sophia retained their ring of defence, swords outward and leaving no flank unprotected.

"Bring me the Silver Heart!" Vane barked, and several Blackhands lurched for Sophia. But Elyan intervened, stepping between them and warning the cultists off with his sword. "Seize them!"

Vane himself retreated, away from Elyan's blade, and suddenly the knights were swarmed with Blackhands.

They fought valiantly, but there were simply too many. Three with a net entangled Percival and subdued him quickly, while another clubbed Leon on the head, knocking him out. Gwaine and Elyan were both disarmed and pinned down, leaving Sophia alone to fight Argus Vane herself. However, without the knights' help, she was swiftly overwhelmed by the wave of Blackhands. She continued to struggle even as they bound her hands, as did Gwaine when someone roped his feet.

"Shit," he growled.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Arthur, gone. Merlin, gone. The knights, gone as well. Gwenevere shook her head morosely, watching as the mob of angry citizens lit torches and hoisted their makeshift weapons—pitchforks, spades, rakes, clubs—in preparation for the dawn. It was the classic beast hunt, and Gwen knew what the beast was. Or rather, beasts.

She could bar the gates, order the quarantine of the city, but a furious rabble of armed men could only be held for so long. They would resist, escape, and then hunt the creature that they had no idea was their king. They couldn't know. If they found out that it was indeed Arthur who had slaughtered so many, the city would tear itself apart in panic and confusion.

Gwen didn't know what to do. She didn't even know if she could trust her own handmaiden to hold her tongue should the queen explain the predicament to her. She was alone.

_I can't just sit here_, she thought, tearing herself away from the window and striding purposefully down the corridor. She knew she had to do something, quickly, but she could not do it alone.

"Have Captain Baldwin brought to the council chambers," she ordered a page, who nodded and hurried off to do her bidding without question.

She waited alone in said chambers anxiously, pacing before the two thrones as she struggled to form a plan. Not much was coming to mind. Ten minutes later, the double doors opened to admit the Silverblood captain.

"Her majesty has need of me?" said Baldwin coolly, and Gwen's eyes narrowed. She still didn't fully trust the man, but he was the only one she felt wouldn't go spreading the predicament around. He would have by now otherwise.

_Personal issues must be set aside_, she told herself, _for the sake of Arthur_.

She glanced around to make sure none of the guards had remained inside the chambers, then lowered her voice and had Baldwin approach.

"Arthur has turned again, and escaped the city," she said flatly, keeping her gaze level with the Silverblood's. "The same with Merlin."

Baldwin smirked. "I could hear them from the tower, m'lady."

"And did you know that a third werewolf answered their calls?" Gwen's eyebrow twitched, but she kept her face otherwise impassive when Baldwin blanched.

"Rowan is here?"

"_Was_ here. All three have fled into the woods." She had never seen Baldwin loose his nerve so quickly before.

"B-but, my lady! We must go after him! We must—"

"To what end, captain?" Gwen demanded, reminding herself to keep her voice somewhat soft. "How can one trap and subdue a werewolf? Three werewolves?"

"With the Silver Heart."

The queen bit her lip and heaved a breath. There was that Heart thing again. "Gwaine had it last, but I do not know where he is."

Baldwin took a step forward. "Then we must find him."

"And how do you propose we do that?" Gwen snapped impatiently. "He could be anywhere in the Darkling Woods by now. It's a race against a swarm of angry civilians, captain, and they've gotten a head start."

Baldwin's hands rose to the sides in question. "Then what are we waiting for, my lady?"

* * *

"**Ride hard. Don't look back." ~ Aragorn (The Lord of the Rings)**

**Happy Holidays, mates :)**


	30. Dreams of the Wild

~30~ Dreams of the Wild

_The woods were dense, unkempt, the mossy trunks of ancient trees seeming to go on forever around him. It wasn't ominous or frightening, and actually enveloped its visitor with a comely sense of peace. Merlin recognized it not, but he felt like he'd known the land, had craved it, all his life. Bodiless, he slipped between the ranks of trees, searching...searching...for what?_

This way, _a voice whispered_. This way...

_As though time flew forwards, Merlin travelled swiftly through the vaguely familiar woods, dodging around trunks just before he slammed into them. For a second, time allowed him to glance at a lonely statue, swarmed by the mosses and ivy of decades, of a hooded, black-handed man with an owl on his shoulder. Then Merlin was whipped away again, pulled though a gorge, and at last stopped for a second and final time. _

_It was a small glade, the brown forest floor carpeted with decaying leaves that would have softened his footfall if he had one. There was more sunlight than usual beaming down in silvery rays, casting oblong stars upon the ground. It wasn't unfamiliar, for he had seen it several times during the past couple weeks, all in his dreams. Only this time, he had been shown the way to reach it._

_Merlin felt strange, but then, he always felt strange there. He wasn't sure why, or what it was exactly, but the area embraced him like no other place could. Not in the Valley of the Fallen Kings, not the Isles of the Blessed, not even Avalon. Almost instinctively, he had called it the Wild._

But what is this place really?

_There was motion in the corner of his eye, and when he looked, he saw a unicorn step free of the foliage._

_All at once, memory surged into his mind._

_It was the place where Arthur had slain, then later revived, a beautiful unicorn almost eight years ago. Most of his attention had been on the gorgeous creature that was the unicorn, but he was positive that this was the place. The Forests of Agmar._

Why here?_ he asked, but of course, there was no reply from the creature. _

_He blinked, and the unicorn became a stag._

_Then fangs burst free of his mouth, his body sprouting hair and rippling muscle, and he was a wolf._

* * *

Merlin became aware of the warm scent of loam and the sweet sounds of dawn songbirds before he even realized that he was awake. He was warm and comfortable, at least until he moved.

He cried out unwillingly as scabbed wounds reopened and pulled muscles felt like they were being torn to shreds. Tears sprung into his eyes and he stuffed a fist into his mouth to stifle further wails. Moaning, he crawled from the low ground tent he had commandeered from the poachers the night before – oh yes, he remembered that quite vividly – and tried to stand. His limbs wobbled precariously, and it was only because of the animal strength granted by the cursed werewolf blood that he was able to get up at all.

"_Ooow_."

Groaning, he finally straightened and tried to flex his arms. His left, bound in a makeshift cast, was useless. His right still ached from the arrow wound, which he had Healed earlier, but at least he could move it. His broken ribs throbbed dully.

Merlin heard a small sound, a whimper, and glanced over to a man who had been bound and gagged with rope. It was second of the two poachers, the first having escaped on horseback. This one's eyes widened in sheer terror when Merlin's gaze fell on him, and he tried to crawl away with his hands tied behind his back and his feet roped together, looking like a massive, grotesque slug. If the warlock wasn't in such pain, it might have been comical to see.

"Learned your lesson?" he said, eyes narrowing. The poacher nodded so fast, Merlin thought his neck would snap. He tried to speak through the gag with little success. Striding towards the cowering man, Merlin untied the ropes and pulled off the rag before crouching and glaring into his eyes.

"I know your scent," he growled. "If you _ever_ come here again, I will kill you."

"Y-y-yes, s-sir! I mean, yes, m-my lord! I'll never come here again! I swear on my mother's head!"

Merlin flicked his head. "Get out of here."

The poacher tried to move quickly, but his feet, numbed from poor circulation, sent him staggering into trees and bushes like a drunkard. Still, he managed to send leaves flying up behind him with what speed he could muster. Merlin watched him until he could see and hear him no more.

"Thank god for small mercies," he muttered, then grunted and clutched his arm. He realized that he was breathing heavily and sagging with exhaustion. The sleep had done him a little good, at least.

But that dream...

The glade, the unicorn, the stag, the wonderful sensations of feeling free...He thought about it, about what it meant, about its purpose.

_Do not fear the Wild, Emrys. To do so would be to fear your own salvation._

That had been the parting words of Gabriela, the Druid shaman and Silverblood outcast, in Mistwood.

When Merlin had first dreamt the glade, he'd given it the name Wild because it seemed so fitting. But now that Gabriela mentioned it, as though that were its rightful title and that it was a real place...

_Do not dwell on dreams_, he thought flatly. _There's no time for that now._

He found more food and another water skin in the abandoned saddlery, and satiated himself, curbing the hungry rumbles in his belly and sandpaper-taste on his tongue.

_And now it's time to find Arthur_.

The first step he took shot a bolt of agony through his body, and he moaned, freezing solid.

_Ignore it. Think about what's at stake. Arthur is in danger_.

He took another step, winced, but took a third. Eventually, he started making real progress, and the pain was smothered in his sense of urgency.

_Wait...Where am I going?_

Merlin paused, blinking. What was the point of being able to walk if he hadn't even thought about where to go?

He turned around, scanning the camp as though it might be hiding some secret to Arthur's whereabouts. Limping back to it, he bit his lip, still holding his arm as he glanced around uselessly. He tried sniffing, hoping that his enhanced senses would catch something, to no avail. The wind picked up, however, and he perked at the sound of baying dogs. Then the wind faded, as did the baying.

Dogs? That couldn't be good.

Merlin strained his hearing, but the breeze brought no further enlightenment. He sighed, then grimaced, teeth gritting together.

_I'll just go back the way I came, then._

He turned slowly, eyes closed against the pain, and when he opened them again, he was stopped short.

A male stag had stepped out of the bushes and stood at the edge of the camp. It stared at him impassively, and he stared back, aghast. It was the same stag that had come to him and Gabriela when they went to the shrine of Larentia to find a cure for the werewolf curse. And it was the one he saw in his dream. He didn't know how he could tell, he just did. Perhaps it was the beast's smell, or because of the fact that it was no more afraid of him than the other stag was.

It flicked an ear, then turned and started to walk away.

"Wait!" Merlin hastened after it, only to stumble and groan in pain. "Come back, please!"

The stag looked back at him, hesitating, but then continued, head held high and proud. Merlin followed it as fast as he could, swallowing pain and fighting to remain on his feet.

For over an hour, he tailed the creature. He suffered in silence, using magic to numb the agony when it was proving too much. He kept such usage to a minimum, wanting to reserve as much energy as possible for what might lie ahead.

_What am I doing?_ he eventually started to think as he stumbled over a tangle of ferns._ I'm following a blooming_ deer.

Then he stiffened, sniffing the air. Horses? He could smell horses!

The stag broke through the last of the thick foliage to where birch trees grew more spaced out. Between these trees were five picketed horses, which squealed and stamped in Merlin's presence. The warlock recognized Gwaine's horse immediately, and Percival's large stallion. One, the quietest of the five, he didn't recognize at all.

The stag's tail flicked as it stared at Merlin, expectant. Then it turned and bounded away, faster than Merlin could follow.

"Hey, wait!"

But the creature was already gone.

"Wonderful," Merlin growled, turning back to the unnerved horses. "Now what—?" He sniffed, then sniffed again when he caught the familiar scents of his friends, and that of Sophia, the Silverblood assassin. Beneath them all, Arthur's musky werewolf smell. The king had passed this way.

Realization warmed Merlin like a hot bath. He glanced up at the trees. "Thank you," he said to them, hoping that Larentia would hear him.

He limped over to Sophia's horse, which tolerated his presence ten times better than the other four, being trained to face creatures such as werewolves. He pulled the reins free of the bush and tried to soothe the steed with a few strokes on its silky neck.

_This is going to hurt_.

He mounted the horse and gasped, muscles screaming. His ribs were on fire. _Yep, I was right_.

"Let's go," he said to the horse, but before he could steer it and nudge it into a walk, he heard the baying of dogs yet again. And this time, they were accompanied by the hollers and shrill whistles of men.

Hunting parties.

Merlin paled. They must be from Camelot, the vengeful civilians venturing to stamp out the beast that had killed so many of their own.

"Go!" he cried, nudging the horse's flanks. He saw stars as the beast leaped into a canter, tearing through the thick foliage that had stopped the knights from riding the night before. His eyes watered as branches snapped across his face like a thousand little whips, but, just like the rest of his pain, he ignored it as best he could, knowing that there was something a _bit_ more important than his comfort at stake.

His urgency only reached paramount when the smell of Blackhands accompanied those of the knights and Arthur. Merlin came across the flattened area where a mighty struggle took place, and, judging by the lack of Blackhand corpses, the knights had lost.

"So much for small mercies," he grunted, kicking the Silverblood horse back into a canter.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Arthur was on the verge of dying when he woke up. He knew this, and just lay there, gasping as fire coursed through his body in place of blood. His body was torn open in more places than he could count, all bleeding, all deep and all potentially fatal.

Then why wasn't he dead?

Because the beast within wasn't ready to die.

And because the Blackhands who found him weren't finished with him yet.

* * *

"**The world ain't all sunshine and rainbows. It's a very mean and _nasty_ place and I don't care how tough you are, it will beat you to your knees and keep you there permanently if you let it. You, me, or nobody is gonna hit as hard as life. But it ain't about how hard ya hit – it's about how hard you can _get_ hit and keep moving forward!" ~ Rocky Balboa**


	31. Bloody Evasion

~31~ Bloody Evasion

Argus Vane, master of the Blackhand cult, waited impatiently as the scout caught up at last, his horse heaving for breath, head sagging low. The scout hastily dismounted and gave a rough salute.

"Out with it, man," Claudius the soothsayer snapped impatiently from beside Vane. "What news of the civilians?"

"They are relentless, sir," the scout gasped, almost as tired as his horse. He was wavering on his feet. "They seek the beast, intent on hunting it down. But now that we have it, they'll be coming for us, next."

Argus Vane sighed heavily through his nose. "This does not bode well for us. They must be stopped."

"Yes, my liege. But how?"

The cult master glanced meaningfully at the scout's longbow.

"Use your imagination."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

The knights were bound, gagged, and roped to their horses. They couldn't so much as turn in the saddle without cutting the circulation from their hands. Their wrists were rubbed raw from constant chaffing and their mouths tasted like cloth. The reason they were on horses at all was because the Blackhands were moving as fast as they possibly could, making for the southern border of Camelot.

Gwaine tried to chew through his gag, all the while looking like he was just suffering his fate in silence. His eyes constantly flickered to the mounted Blackhands captors who guarded him and his companions down the forest road. They were all moving at a quick pace, distancing themselves from the mob of civilians and hunting dogs that Gwaine had overheard from a scouting cultist. They were hunting for the beast, not knowing that that beast was their king.

And that king was currently in a barred waggon in the middle of the Blackhand procession.

Gwaine was helpless to do anything when they found Arthur, lying mortally wounded in a ditch. They had been following the destructive tracks all night, and though Gwaine had hoped against the odds, the king was found and captured.

He wondered how Arthur fared now, stuffed in that waggon while bleeding out of every inch of his body. There had been a physician to look at him, but Gwaine had seen his wounds – how could _anyone_ survive another hour like that?

His jaw cramped from gnawing at the gag, and he couldn't even massage it when he finally stopped chewing. He stared down at his bloodied wrists, the skin torn and worn away by his efforts of liberation. When he glanced at the other knights' arms, he saw them in the same boat. The same leaky, capsizing boat.

_Why has it come to this?_

Morning stretched into afternoon, and evening dragged its feet. The moon paid an early visit with the sun, rising as a wide crescent before its brighter and warmer brother had time to sink below the mountains. Gwaine dozed, dreaming of a warm bed and hot food. And mead. It seemed like ages since he had that last...though it couldn't have been more than a day.

By nightfall, the caravan had settled in a disclosed clearing, a deep, slow-moving river slipping out of the trees in the west before diving back in. Gwaine and the knights were hauled off their horses and dragged over to the middle of the camp, where they were tied up once more, back to back and gagged. Gwaine saw Sophia once, similarly bound and silenced, and she looked mighty beat up. Gwaine felt a swell of anger.

_She's their family_, he growled inwardly, _distant or not. Just wait until I get my sword again_...

The knights were forced into complete silence and robbed of all opportunity to communicate. They had their gags removed to eat, but then the cloths were replaced and guards were stationed to prevent the knights from exchanging any form of communication, including body language or writing things in the dirt.

It was adding insult to injury when Gwaine overheard a Blackhand reporting to the cult master, Argus Vane – the mob of Camelot civilians had been evaded completely. How the Blackhands managed to lose their scent was a mystery, but Gwaine wondered whether if it had less to do with clever track elimination and more to do with bloody confrontation.

Gwaine tried to pull his bonds just a little, not so much to escape as to get more comfortable. He sagged when he realized that it was fruitless. Every thirty or so minutes, a Blackhand would come by and loosen the knots to let the circulation run its course for a little while. It was a small thing, but the knights of Camelot were grateful for it. If they continued to gain their captors' trust in that they wouldn't try to escape during such periods, perhaps a chance would eventually present itself. For now, though, Gwaine felt mighty sleepy...

He didn't realized that he'd dozed off until he heard the distant howl. Gwaine _just_ managed to keep his eyes closed, opening them a mere slit in order to observe without letting people know they were being observed. The moon lit up the silvery crowns of the trees ringing the camp, leaving bottomless shadows below for prowlers to stalk in.

Fires had dwindled to mere pulsing embers, the dying hearts of once proud flames. Most of the cultists were sleeping, but the guards were vigilant, pacing up and down a small stretch and not showing an ounce of exhaustion or boredom. Picketed horses muttered, tails swishing in the darkness. A swarm of fluttering, tittering bats swirled overhead, blocking the moon for a few seconds before vanishing beyond the woods. Such limited action was gradually lulling Gwaine back to sleep, and his head rolled back to his shoulder, eyes heavy.

_Ah-roooooooo!_

There it was again. Howling. And the ruffian knight wasn't the only one to hear; he saw all of the sentries protecting the prisoners stiffen, scanning the surrounding trees. Many had an arrow to recurve or longbows, no doubt silver-tipped. Gwaine hoped they were good shots.

A flash of movement caught his eye. But when he glanced at the offending shadows at the edge of the camp, he saw nothing.

Gwaine shifted his feet uneasily. Must have been a whiff of cloud passing before the moon. Yeah, that's it.

A cool breeze whistled through the clearing, mournful, a choir of wraiths. Gwaine tried to duck his head into his collar to ward off the cold, with little success.

_Ah-roooooooo..._

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Gwen, Baldwin and Tiberius had left their horses back in the trees, choosing to approach the knoll overlooking the valley on foot. The moon outlined faint wisps of smoke trickling up from the trees below, betraying the Blackhands' location to their pursuers.

"They do not know we are here," Tiberius said softly, eyes shifting about cautiously, "else they wouldn't have risked fires."

Baldwin's lieutenant had been requested to join the queen and Silverblood captain, having the Sight as pure as Baldwin's and with an excellent eye for archery. He made good backup, and was as equally determined to stamp out the Blackhands as much as his superior.

"They are confident because they believe that they have eluded all of their pursuers," Gwen hissed, salt spiking her words vehemently.

Someone, or rather, several someones, had lain down an ambush earlier that day. When the hunting mob of Camelot's civilians stepped through the middle point, the gauntlet closed – arrows from unseen bows shot down every last hound the hunt possessed. The unfortunate creatures weren't the only things harmed though. A couple of men howled as they felt the arrows pierce their legs. Some fell without a sound.

Gwen had been close enough to see men die. Shock claimed her, then despair, then irrepressible rage. The Blackhands had done this, effectively eliminating the hunt's prime trackers and causing panic among the people. She knew they did this with no regret or conscience. And they were going to pay for it.

After viewing the hound-massacre, Gwen, Baldwin, and Tiberius skirted west and then continued south, out of the way of the retreating hunt. When the trio felt that there was no chance of being seen and that they had bypassed the ambush point, they cut straight back east. They found the trail again, and they followed the Blackhands incognito.

"We must be careful," Baldwin continued. "They have the Heart and the king. If they find out we're here, they may very well use him as a hostage. Or a weapon."

"How do we get him out of there?" asked Gwen, her voice equally soft. "He'll be hurt and weak."

"Don't let him hear you say that. I did once. I thought he was going to bite my head off."

Gwenevere whirled around. "Merlin!"

The servant grinned through the darkness, but it was a pained grin. "In the flesh."

"Beast!" Baldwin roared, standing and drawing his sword. Tiberius drew his longbow and aimed right at the servant's forehead.

"No!" Gwen leaped up and stayed their hands as Merlin tensed, preparing to spring back. "Don't hurt him!"

"He'll kill us all! He'll—"

"_Shh!_" she hissed, and the Silverblood quickly fell silent, but he still glowered at an equally distrustful Merlin. "You fool. Think about what's at stake, here."

"She's right," said the servant coolly, eyes glancing from Baldwin to Tiberius and back again. "Put your hatred behind you for now. We have to work together to get Arthur and the knights out of there."

"The knights?" said Gwen, puzzled. "What happened—?"

"I think they've been captured. Their scent coincided with the Blackhands' at one point, and never separated."

Gwen nodded in understanding, struggling to conceal her unease of how Merlin could smell as intensely as any wolf. "What's the plan?"

"We must get the Silver Heart. That's vital. Even if we get Arthur free, we will be condemning him to death without it," said Merlin, and he winced.

"Are you hurt?" Gwen passed a hand over the servant's chest in mounting concern, but snatched it back when he flinched violently.

"I'm fine. But we need—"

"Why do we need the Heart, besides the obvious reasons?" Baldwin demanded, looking like he wouldn't be more pleased than to lop off Merlin's head where he sat. Tiberius never took the arrow away from his bow. "Or are the obvious reasons the only reasons?"

Merlin's eyes flickered to the right just for a moment, and Gwen knew he was going to lie. "No other reason than the obvious."

Baldwin sneered. "I can See your emotions, beast. You're lying."

The servant barred his teeth, and Gwen suddenly felt afraid of him. He was a werewolf, after all.

"I'm not trusting you with the information," he growled.

"And I'm not trusting you to lead the mission."

"Then don't. Just listen to my plan."

"As soon as you tell me what the hell you've done to the Silver Heart."

"What makes you assume—?"

"You're uneasy, anxious, _scared_. Your emotions run as strong as the River Tiber. You did something. And you're going to tell me what."

Gwen fumed with impatience, but she was equally determined to find out what Merlin knew. His hesitation could mean anything, but to keep his silence now of all times...

She blinked in realization. "The Heart can cure Arthur, can't it?"

Merlin glanced at her in astonishment. "How did—?"

"Preposterous!" Baldwin snapped, but remembered to keep his voice down. "The curse cannot be cured! We have searched for decades, _centuries_. Rowan would have been cured if anything was found."

The servant stared calmly at him. "You were searching in the wrong place." He turned back to the queen. "I guess there's no point in hiding it now. Yes, the Heart is vital if we wish to lift the curse from Arthur. You must give it to him."

"Me?"

Merlin nodded. "I don't trust _them_—" He flicked his head at the Silverbloods. "And I can't touch it, not without taking the cure myself."

Gwen stared at him, but her throat closed as she realized what he meant. "So...you will remain a werewolf, when all is said and done. Oh, Merlin—"

The servant hastily shook his head. "Don't worry about me. I'm not important. We must cure Arthur."

A howl rose in the distance, and Merlin flinched, eyes widening. "Oh no. Rowan. Damn, I forgot about him..."

"Could the Heart cure Rowan?" Baldwin demanded, grabbing the servant's arm.

"No," he replied too quickly, and yanked his arm free. "Not now that he's stuck a werewolf. It...it won't work."

The captain's silver-edged sword was out and pricking Merlin's throat before Gwen had time to intercept. The servant yelped as the silver touched his skin, falling over onto his back. He tried to escape, crawling backwards and away from the sword, but Baldwin followed doggedly, clearly enjoying himself.

"That's the last lie that shall pass over your tongue, beast." The blade fell.

Merlin's head dodged to the side to avoid the sword, and his right hand lunged up, catching Baldwin by the throat. The man choked, grasping frantically at his neck as the servant squeezed mercilessly.

"Merlin, no!" Gwen and Tiberius shot forward and tried to pry his hand off Baldwin's throat together, but his gaze was locked on his enemy as he slowly throttled him to death. "Look at me, Merlin. _Look at me!_" Gwen slapped him, and he flinched out of his trance. For a moment, he appeared confused, but as realization dawned in his eyes, he threw Baldwin away, letting him fall back into the foliage, coughing and gasping.

"I...I'm sorry, Gwen," Merlin said softly. "It's the beast blood. Sometimes...sometimes it gets out of hand..."

"It's all right," she said, trying to hide her wariness. "He attacked you. What else were you going to do?"

"Don't listen to his snivelling!" Baldwin hissed, recovering quickly. "He'll kill us when we turn our backs. If he has any honour, he will grant me the pleasure of cutting out his heart!"

"Shut it, you git," Merlin said blandly, turning away. Then he stiffened as Rowan howled again. "We don't have much time. Their security will double if Rowan gets any closer."

"What's the plan?" asked Gwen intently, and Merlin grinned.

* * *

**"Always assume an enemy knows you're there and that he will attack you. That way, ****you tend to avoid unpleasant surprises." ~ Halt (Ranger's Apprentice)**


	32. Shadow Bender

**Yay! I found a new name for the Wolverines! :D It is...*insert suspenseful drumroll here* Blackhands! ...Euh, I know. It's not much better but my brain hurts and I just wanna finish this damn story with some level of _pride_ -.- I was going to explain the meaning of the name but when written down, it sounds lame. So, yeah. **

**And now I've gotta go back and fix...all...31 chapters... *eye twitches* **

* * *

~32~ Shadow Bender

Gwaine heard the howling, and thought his heart would hammer its way out of his mouth. Was it Merlin? Was it Rowan? Either way, he was sure the Blackhands wouldn't care too much to protect their prisoners from a hungry werewolf.

The cultists had been giving each of the knights water when a particularly loud howl startled them to a standstill. They turned away, towards the trees, forgetting to replace the gags of their prisoners.

It was impossible to see much past the dull glow of the fires surrounding the knights of Camelot, but Gwaine tried. He strained his vision, yet saw nothing but patrolling Blackhands. He realized that he'd been holding his breath, and released it all at once, making Leon beside him jump.

"Scare the flipping daylights out of me," he growled.

"_Shh!_"

Leon fell silent, cuing yet another werewolf howl. He shifted uneasily.

"Who is that, d'you suppose?"

"Does it matter?" asked Gwaine softly. "Any of them would be happy to rip your throat out and satiate its thirst with your fluids."

"Always an uplifting speaker, Gwaine."

_Thud._

The two knights jumped as the rock hit the earth and rolled a few feet before coming to a stop. They stared at it, not understanding its significance.

"Um, who threw that?" breathed Leon, barely moving his jaw.

_Thud._

A smaller rock this time, and further away. The Blackhand sentries glanced at the projectiles curiously and anxiously, then looked out of the ring of fire pits, trying to pierce the shadows cast by the dense trees.

"Who goes there?" one near the outer rim demanded, bow drawn and aimed into the darkness. Of course, there was no reply. Then a cultist yelped as a pebble contacted his skull with a light _crack_.

"Someone's creating a distraction," Elyan said from a few feet away, back to back with Percival. The larger knight craned his neck to see upwards, wary of more falling stones.

"...With...rocks."

_Thud. Thud—thud, crack!_

"Ouch!"

More than one Blackhand, awake and asleep, gasped and exclaimed their pain as the thrown stones hit some part of their anatomy. The blows appeared to be at random, preventing the Silverblood turncoats from finding even a vague target point. Some went so far as to shoot arrows into the darkness of the trees, hoping to catch their assailants that way. It was a waste of arrows.

The whole camp was awake now, and most forgot about their Camelot prisoners in anger and fear. At least a score of them entered the trees with torches, while others simply fanned out to cover as much ground as possible within the clearing.

None of them even suspected the river.

* * *

Merlin surfaced, trying not to gasp as he let only his nose rise over the numbing water to breathe. He saw the Blackhand camp before him, the inhabitants all facing the woods and away from the river. The fading fires cast a faint glow, the smoke thick and pungent in Merlin's nostrils.

Beside him, Gwen also emerged, rivulets of water running down from the top of her head. He could smell her fear. He took her arm and gently led her to the shore, smiling in reassurance. She tried to smile back, but the mixture of anxious malaise and limb-locking cold prevented anything more graceful than a grimace.

The pair of them inched their way up the land on their bellies, grateful for the meagre light granted by the crescent moon. With their eyes adjusted to the darkness, and the Blackhands' only to the firelight, their advantages continued to mount.

"Make ready," Merlin said softly, tensing on his stomach in the grass. He sensed Gwen shift beside him, heard her draw a knife. He himself felt the werewolf stirring in his gut like a pit of restless serpents, prodding at his restraints experimentally. Its time would come.

More of Baldwin's and Tiberius' thrown rocks bombarded the Blackhand camp, bamboozling the inhabitants and distracting them from their prisoners, the knights of Camelot. A few guards remained near them in the centre of the clearing, but all were facing away from the two intruders, believing that quarter to be protected by the river.

Somewhere to the north, Rowan howled once more. Merlin wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he was closer. What if he was following the king's trail?

"Where's Arthur?" whispered Gwen, as though she were thinking the same as her companion. Merlin pointed.

"There are a few carriages over there. He's probably in that one, with the bars."

"What about the Silver Heart?"

That, Merlin didn't know. Gwen wouldn't expect him to, of course, and he couldn't pretend that the issue hadn't crossed his mind. When they were formulating the plan, he'd hoped that perhaps one of the knights or Sophia Silverblood would know.

Finally, the cry he'd been waiting for arose, and several Blackhands dashed into the trees to root out their discovered assailant. The three that remained with the knights stepped further away from them, eager to join the hunt, yet remained in the clearing.

_Go on, get out of here_. Merlin's mental wishing went unheeded, and he knew more was needed to be done. It was a risk, but a risk that would be well taken should it succeed. And as long as the Blackhands didn't turn towards the river, it _would_ succeed.

Muttering not a sound, the warlock cast his magic to the edges of the camp, right before the Blackhands' view. He bent the shadows, willing them to move and sway like dashing figures. The three sentries called out excitedly, and, remarkably, left their charges unguarded.

"Move," Merlin hissed, rising to a crouch and rushing between the covers of the tents across the gap, to the four knights tied back to back in the middle of the camp.

The men were smart enough to exclaim nothing loudly as Merlin stooped beside them, watching for any returning Blackhands as Gwen followed suit.

"My saviour," Gwaine said softly, fluttering his eyes as the queen sliced his bonds, freeing both him and Leon.

"Where's Arthur?" Merlin demanded, and the knights pointed, confirming the warlock's initial suspicion – in the barred carriage. But he was dismayed to see the horses so close to it. He wouldn't be able to get near them without alerting the Blackhands. He would have to do something to calm them...

"And the Heart?"

This time, the knights shrugged.

"It may be in Argus Vane's tent," Percival suggested, indicating to the largest pavilion in the clearing. "That's where they took Sophia."

"You get Arthur," said Gwen, "and leave the Heart to me."

Merlin nodded as she slipped away, then passed Gwaine his dagger, his only weapon. He glanced around nervously before relaying the plan.

"You four stay here, pretend you're still bound. We need to remain as inconspicuous as possible for as long as possible. I'll get Arthur out, and then when you see the signal, come and get him. Get him out of here, whatever it takes."

"What's the signal?" asked Leon.

Merlin turned back grimly. "You'll know."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Gwen slipped around to the back of the cult master's tent, watchful for sentries and using other tents as cover. Her heart hammered in her chest and her palms were sweaty against the hilt of her dagger. Every rustle, every brush of her clothes, sent a ripple of alarm through her like a shock wave. She would still like a rabbit beneath a circling hawk, praying to the gods that she wouldn't be detected.

Finally, she reached her destination and slowly let out her pent-up breath, sighing slowly through her nose and calming her buzzing nerves. It didn't do much, but it reminded her that more than one person depended on her success.

She lowered herself to her belly and gradually lifted an edge of Vane's tent canvas. It was lit by candles, glowing a warm yellow. Covering most of her view was a dark, rectangular shape, like a box or chest. She could see the legs of a Blackhand guard, and knew that there was another, just out of sight. They had remained at their posts, but were softly conversing, clearly curious as to what was happening outside. Gwen was relieved to see that Vane was nowhere in sight.

Edging along half a foot, the queen was able to see more of the interior. Being swift travellers that they were, they had no space to spare for luxuries. Even so, Vane had a comfortable-looking cot and a single chair, plus the chest that sat right before her. The chair could have been used to seat the Silverblood woman more comfortably, but it would seem that there was no room in his heart for chivalry.

The woman was tied to a tent post by her unbroken wrist. She was gagged, and bound at the ankles. She glared defiantly at the two Blackhands, haughty despite the beatings she had clearly sustained by her captivity. Gwen could see swelling, bruising and cut flesh. Her clothes were torn and something red had been spilled down her front, marring the ivory-white stag emblem on her chest. The queen felt a trill of alarm before realizing that it was wine – there was an empty bottle lying not far away.

Perhaps the Silverblood felt eyes on her, for she suddenly glanced down at the small crack between the earth and the canvas Gwen had created. But just as quickly, her pale gaze returned to the Blackhand guards. It was so brief, Gwen wondered if she'd even looked at all.

_She must be Sophia, the woman Percival mentioned. I don't know her, but she's an enemy to the Blackhands. We'll need her. _I'll _need her, to help me get the Heart. It must be in this chest, and these two brutes won't hand it over on a silver platter._

She lowered the canvas and crawled on her belly to the corner on the right of the tent entrance, the corner that the Silverblood was tied. When she finally arrived, she peeked in through a lifted edge again, seeing the Blackhands looking at each other and still speaking softly. After scanning the camp one last time, watching the other cultists milling about and heading for the trees in search of Baldwin and Tiberius, she then readied her dagger. She hoped the two guards' helmets would restrict their peripheral vision as she reached in and slowly cut Sophia's bonds.

The Silverblood didn't move the entire time, keeping perfectly still with her gaze locked on the Blackhands. If she even so much as looked away, then the two might have glanced over at her. As it was, Gwen managed to cut through the ropes with no trouble. Getting her feet, however, was a different story.

_Bound or no, a trained warrior is better with a dagger than I_.

Gwen pressed the hilt of her knife into Sophia's hand, and she clasped it loosely. If she'd tightened her grip, the guards may have gotten alerted to the slight movement.

_Now what?_ Gwen retracted her arm and slid back to the rear of the tent, furthest from the light of the dying fires. She was running out of time, she knew, their whole plan established on perfect timing and secrecy until the moment came for the attempted rescue. Merlin would be getting Arthur by now, and the knights would be preparing to smuggle the king away. What the servant said he was going to do after that was vague. As for Gwen, she was to leave with the Heart. Baldwin and Tiberius would evade the Blackhands in the woods and rendezvous in Camelot.

_Our best bet would to get Arthur as far away as possible before they realized that the knights were gone_, she thought, trying to coax her hope from a spark to a flame. _But the Blackhands would have to be pretty thick not to notice quickly_...

Gwen suddenly flinched as something lean and hard jabbed into her side while she crawled to the rear of the tent. Rolling over, she saw that it was a pike stabbed into the ground, a string leading from the protective awning of the pavilion tied beneath its cap.

Pulling on it experimentally, she found it loose enough to yank free, and did so, arming herself once more. It was slightly shorter than her hand was long and an inch thick. Small, but deadly in the right place.

_Get ready to move, Silverblood_, she thought, hoping her thoughts would send vibes to Sophia. They would have to silence the two guards simultaneously, else one of them alert the outsiders to the intruders, compromising the mission.

Her heart was racing again. Her grasp tightened on the awning pike as she inched back to the place where she had first spied on the innards of the tent. All at once, the tricks Arthur had shown her flashed in her mind – where the body was weak, vulnerable, fatal if struck. There was the usual neck, heart and head points, but there was also a place on the back that severed the spinal cord and pierced the heart in one deadly thrust. Well, Gwen didn't have the strength nor the weapon to do _that_, but a stab in the temple or throat should do the trick.

She cautiously lifted the tent edge again and caught the Silverblood's eye for a split second. She knew the queen was there, and so would prepare herself. She would get the rightmost guard, and Gwen, the left.

_I just have to get inside and kill him before he makes a sound_—

Sophia suddenly granted Gwen the distraction she needed. But even she was almost too shocked to move when the Silverblood started to cry. She hung her head, chest wracked with jerking sobs. The two Blackhands glanced at each other, then at their prisoner, stunned.

Gwen finally thawed her frozen limbs and made her move. Slipping into the tent, she lurched up at the first guard's back, one hand covering his mouth as the other plunged the pike into his throat.

She'd killed men before, but that didn't soften the blow to her conscience. She felt him stiffen, his jaw opening to scream into her hand as hot blood gushed from his neck and pooled on the ground. Gwen tried not to scream too as he slumped forward, overbalancing her and dragging her down with him.

She barely heard the whir of the knife buzzing through the air to impale the other guard, and refused to look as he gargled, the blade buried in his eye. He slumped limply and with such finality that Gwen's throat closed, suffocating by the burdensome grasp of guilt.

"There's no time to waste, my lady!" the Silverblood hissed after pulling her gag free. "Bring the knife so I may cut my ankles loose."

Gwen blanched at the thought of pulling the blade from the Blackhand's skull. That man was _alive_ just a few frantic heartbeats ago. Alive, breathing, speaking with his comrade-in-arms. Seeing him there, lying dead in his own blood, made it impossible for the queen to see him as a monster.

The Silverblood huffed with impatience and began to drag herself across the tent to the corpse herself. She turned the man over and yanked the dagger out of his eye, then, unfazed by the gore, sliced the ropes from her ankles.

"Time to go, your majesty."

Gwen drew herself from the depths of dismay and disgust, and glowered at her.

"Not without the Heart."

The woman wasn't bothered by the glare, and nodded at the chest. "In there. Hurry now."

The queen turned and made to open the simple trunk, anticipation shoving grief aside. But then, a wave of spawning horror, which swelled into utter despair, surged over her with the fury of an avalanche. The chest was locked.

* * *

"**If we don't have the key, we can't unlock whatever it is that we don't have that it unlocks. So what purpose would be served in finding whatever need be unlocked – which we don't have – without having first found the key what unlocks it?" ~ Jack Sparrow (Pirates of the Caribbean)**


	33. Liberation

**You know, I was _so close_ to finishing the last sections of this story that day I updated chapter 32, the one day a week I have completely off. Then, just before I finish—I get called in to work.**

**FUUUUUUUUUUUUUUUU—! DX**

* * *

~33~ Liberation

Merlin ghosted across the camp like a wraith, making for the three carriages at the north edge of the clearing. He dodged from tent to tent, using the shadows cast by uncertain light to his advantage. The horses tethered there sensed his presence and began to stamp nervously, nickering and tossing their heads. The warlock winced at the sounds, noticing for the first time the three guards standing at the points of a triangle around Arthur's prison. They were watching around them warily, but seemed in no hurry to go anywhere.

_Blast_, Merlin thought, glowering at the guards as if hoping to eliminate them through his eyes alone. _No Blackhand can be looking my way when I do this, else they will See my magic_, he reminded himself, and ducked behind the first construction, a supply waggon.

The rocks made no sound as each of them lifted from the ground and hovered. Simultaneously, they threw themselves at the three guards, cracking against their temples and knocking them out cold.

Merlin's eyebrows rose to hide in his bangs as the Blackhands slumped to the ground in heaps.

"Well, that was easy."

Now, he warlock opened a hand towards the unsettled horses.

"_C__ë__ssab__í__t, fratr__ė__s_," he whispered, and gradually, the beasts calmed, lowering their heads and ceasing their incessant whinnying.

Hoping that Arthur wouldn't notice their sudden tranquillity, Merlin slipped past the beasts to the middlemost waggon and peeked inside the barred window.

"Arthur," he hissed. "Arthur!"

For a few heart-stopping moments, he thought that it was empty. But then he heard something shift in the darkness.

"Merlin?"

The voice was weak, agonized, but definitely the king's. Merlin heaved a sigh of relief.

"You're alive. Thank gods."

"Merlin, what's happening?"

The warlock glanced over his shoulder, trying to see if Gwen had retrieved the Heart from Argus Vane's tent yet. "I _think_ we're getting you out of here, but I can't be sure."

"You know thinking's bad for you."

"It drowns my sorrows birthed of your abuse."

"Aw, poor muffin."

Merlin snorted and fiddled with the door. "Locked."

"You don't say?"

Arthur certainly sounded lighter than he had a moment ago. He would be in absolute agony, but with the prospect of freedom...

"I'm going to have to rip the door off," said Merlin smoothly, investigating the lock and hinges carefully.

"I'm sorry, _what?_"

"It's going to make a hell of a lot of noise though."

"Did you say, 'rip the door off?'"

Merlin glanced over his shoulder again, realizing that most of the Blackhands had charged into the woods to find the people chucking rocks at them. That was to say, Baldwin and Tiberius. Not many remained to guard the camp, and even they were focused on the surrounding trees, calling out to one another.

_A sound barrier would be like waving ten torches around_, he thought. _I'll just have to risk it_.

"I hope one arm will be strong enough," he muttered to himself, remembering his ravaged left shoulder. He grasped the handle with his right hand, put one foot on the waggon, and yanked with all his might.

There were three loud cracks as the hinges tore free and the lock shattered. The waggon bucked. Merlin staggered, the weight of the door hauling him back. Abandoning the debris, the warlock hurried to the open void of the carriage, trying to see inside. There was a heavy stench of old blood and dried sweat, but he ignored that in his desperation to see his friend.

"Bloody hell, Merlin," said the king quietly, his face a pale blur in the darkness. His eyes were wide. "That must have been...the most amazing thing you've ever done."

"Come on, there's no time to waste."

* * *

Arthur dragged himself painfully to the open exit of the waggon, grimacing as innumerable wounds split open, oozing fresh blood. His arms trembled with the effort, and he collapsed.

"I can't," he said, shivering. "I can't..."

"You must, Arthur," Merlin hissed urgently, glancing over his shoulder again. "They'll come back any second, and Gwen is getting—"

"Gwenevere's here?" the king demanded, perking. "What the hell—? _Why_ is she here, Merlin? Go! Get her somewhere safe!"

"We're not leaving you, clotpole!" he snapped, reaching into the darkness for Arthur's hand. "Now move. Don't make me come in there..."

But Arthur just wanted to lie there. It was painful, oh so painful. It was as though he'd been mauled by a pack of ravenous dogs and left to die.

"I can't, Merlin. Please, just leave me—" Arthur recoiled as his manservant leaped into the waggon and proceeded to pick him up. Merlin, pick _him_ up!

"What're you doing? Let me go!"

"Shut it!" the servant hissed, pulling the king to lean on his right shoulder. His left, it would seem, was handicapped. Arthur wondered what happened. "We're risking everything for you! Don't ruin it by being a girl's petticoat."

"You can't talk to your king that way."

"What are you going to do? _Fire_ me? Go ahead. It'll be a nice reprieve."

Arthur was too pained to construct a comeback as Merlin helped him off the waggon. He may be strong, but he wasn't gentle.

"Ow," he grunted, freezing in his tracks. Merlin said nothing, probably because he'd just seen the clumsily-bound wounds covering the king's whole body.

"How on earth are you still alive," he breathed, and Arthur harrumphed.

"The beast isn't ready to die yet."

There was a commotion rising near the edge of the camp. Blackhands were returning.

"Damn. We have to go, _now_." Merlin started to drag Arthur back into the darkness, and as realization of the energy penetrated the king's consciousness, adrenaline began to seep into his blood.

"Wait. I can walk." He pulled away from Merlin, who looked unsurprised at the sudden strength.

"The werewolf is lending you energy," he said softly with a wince. "I've been running on it for the past several hours."

"Wait, how badly are you hurt?" It was too late to smother the visible concern Arthur displayed, but Merlin didn't seem to care for the empathy.

"I'll live. Now let's _move_."

Arthur limped towards the trees, casting nervous glances about the camp. "Where's Gwen?"

"Like I said, she's getting the Heart. In a few moments, she'll join you at that knoll, there, on the hillside." Merlin pointed. "As will the knights."

"Hold on...You said, 'She'll join _you.'_ What are you doing?"

"Causing a distraction."

Arthur stopped, forcing his servant to do the same. "Oh, no no no. You're coming with us."

"Sire, there's no time! We'd have no chance of getting away. Besides," he added, hitting Arthur lightly on the shoulder, "I'm a werewolf. What's the worst that could happen?"

To the east, Rowan howled.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

"Locked, _locked!_ How could it be _locked?_" Gwen's irrational protests were as helpful as a bucket with a hole, yet she couldn't help but kick the fastened trunk in frustration.

"Maybe there's a key in here," said Sophia calmly, scanning Argus Vane's tent carefully. But besides the cot, the chair, and the chest, there was no other furniture in which it could be hiding in. "Maybe one of the guards has it."

"Or Vane himself," Gwen said flatly, fuming. "Should have known it wouldn't be this easy."

_Ha, 'easy_,' she sneered inwardly. It only took killing a man and skulking around the tent in fear that she would be caught, which would have been a fatal mistake. Just an everyday task for a queen of Camelot.

Sophia searched the guards, but the endeavour proved fruitless. She stared at Gwen, hard. "Come. We'll take the whole thing."

"What?"

"What choice have we? Take that end."

Together, both women took a handle on either side of the chest, bending at the knees. Sophia grasped hers with only one hand, her other wrist bound in a cast.

"Ready? One, two, _heave_."

They hoisted the chest up with twin grunts, breathing through their noses as they held the full weight. There must have been a suit of armour in there, with the owner still wearing it!

"Grab the bottom! Good. Now let's go."

The pair of them shuffled for the entrance of the tent, Sophia going backwards, Gwen moving forwards. Tearing free of the canvas flaps, they found themselves back in the night, dark after the candle-lit interior of the tent.

"Where to?" Sophia gasped, and Gwen jerked her head.

"Towards that hill. We're to rendezvous at that rocky knoll, there."

"You want to carry this thing _all_ the way up _there?_"

"If you have any better solutions—"

"Oi! Halt!"

Gwen stumbled in surprise, forcing them both to drop the chest with the Silver Heart and whirl around. Two Blackhands rushed towards them, each bearing a spear.

"Get back, my lady!" Sophia pushed Gwenevere behind her and made ready, but the queen knew she had no chance against two armed men, well-trained or no.

"You can't face them alone—!"

"Intruders!" one cultist roared, thrusting his spear at the Silverblood. "We're under attack—_awk!_"

For a moment, Gwen thought that Sophia had done something to the sentry. But the Silverblood warrior was just as shocked when the man slumped forward, a dagger buried in his back. The other Blackhand was too slow to react before Gwaine slammed into him, knocking him onto his face.

"My lady," said the knight gracefully, bowing at the waist before his queen.

"No time for formalities! They've heard the alarm!" Leon limped past Gwaine, Elyan and Percival in tow.

Sure enough, at least a dozen Blackhands were jogging back into their camp, bristling with drawn weapons and scanning about for the interlopers.

"Percival, get the chest!" Elyan scooped up one of the sentry's spears and kicked the living one in the head, knocking him out cold. Sophia took up the other spear, while Leon snagged a sword.

As told, the huge knight lifted the chest with a grunt, doing alone what Sophia and Gwen could barely do together.

"Damn," he grunted. "I thought you were supposed to get the Heart, not loot the place!"

"Move it!" Gwaine kept Gwen ahead of him as they fled the incoming Blackhand horde. It didn't help, though, when more of the cultists emerged from the northeastern end of the camp, the direction of their meeting point. They were surrounded.

"Get ready for a battle of your lives," Gwaine grunted, and rushed forward to meet the first cultist.

* * *

"They've been caught!" Arthur turned around at the sound of the alarm, already running back towards the camp.

"No, Arthur!" Merlin lunged and snagged his loose, bloodstained cotton shirt. "_You_ stay here. I'll go back and cause the distraction. We cannot waver from the plan!"

"What distraction could you possibly do?" the king demanded impatiently. Gwen was in danger!

"Just—_trust_ me, okay?"

Arthur was torn. He couldn't be much help even with the werewolf blood. But he needed to help Gwen...

"I'm not leaving you," he said in determination, and Merlin growled.

"You're not leaving me. _I'm_ leaving _you_. Now stay—_here!_" With that, he charged back towards the clearing, leaving Arthur alone in the woods.

The king waited for about thirty seconds. Then he ran after his servant.

* * *

**Go get 'em, mate.**

"**The brethren know they face extinction. All that remains is where they make their final stand." ~ Cutler Beckett (Pirates of the Caribbean)**


	34. To End It

**I did it! YES! Last words have finally been nailed down! *sniffs, wipes imaginary tear* I never thought I'd live to see this day...I mean, it took a week longer than I thought but hey, I got 'er done!**

***does little happy dance***

* * *

~34~ To End It

When the first three Blackhands were slain, Percival, Gwaine, and Gwen were able to properly arm themselves, taking up swords or hand axes in defence of the incoming horde. First it had been a dozen. Now at least a score more were coming, charging from the woods like like a swarm of angry wasps. The knights' only fortune was that the light was too questionable for their foes to be firing arrows.

"Defensive ring!" Leon barked, and the seven of them formed a circle, facing outwards, the chest with the Silver Heart in the middle. Not that it would do much good. With unfamiliar weapons and not so much as a shield for defence, the knights, Silverblood and queen had little chance.

"Never thought that this would be our ending," Gwaine said softly, not a shred of heartiness in his tone.

Elyan snorted. "Yeah, dying side by side with _you_."

"You know I was bred to outlive sods like yourself."

"Then you are an embarrassment to your kind—you would've died from drowning in a ditch after falling into a drunken stupor."

"As long as I die with the taste of mead on my tongue, I'm happy." Gwaine's fist tightened on the Blackhand sword. "Bring it on, you savages."

The knights fought valiantly as the first wave hit them. Gwen felled a few herself and Sophia was deadly with her spear, even though she was weak and had a broken wrist. Nine Blackhands fell before Elyan was cut on the leg and was forced to retreat. Things started to look grim from there.

Percival took Elyan's place, only to lose his sword, a sly Blackhand dirk slicing his forearm. Gwaine was blinded by a cut on his forehead. Leon was struggling to keep his balance, his leg, injured from a Silverblood arrow two days before, hindering him perilously. Gwen was disarmed in the confusion, and then somebody grasped her arm and pulled her from the knights.

"Let me go!" she shrieked, clawing at the kidnapping Blackhand.

"Release her!" Gwaine roared, lurching forwards with his blade. But an attacker smashed the back of his head with a buckler, and the knight went down instantly.

"No!"

Despite the rage birthed by the loss of a companion, the knights could not prevail. They were gradually forced to retreat towards the river, where they would be slaughtered one by one.

What they needed was reinforcements. Something Merlin was able to give.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Merlin saw Elyan and Percival wounded. He saw Gwenevere being drawn away. He saw Gwaine fall. And then he saw red.

_Hurt my friends, will they?_

He forced the werewolf to come out. In his blind desperation and insurmountable fury, the beast tore free of its restraints and burst painfully from his body. He felt his limbs lengthen and thicken with graceful muscle. His hands curled as talons sprouted from his fingers and gnashing teeth fill his elongated maw. Silky black fur replaced clothing and flesh as he tore them off in his agony.

Merlin remembered very little after that. As blood spattered the grass red, gushing from between his teeth and off his claws, his mind and the beast's fought for supremacy. And his was losing.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Baldwin watched from the cover of a waggon as the Blackhands surrounded the knights of Camelot, an axe tight in his fist. He also recognized Sophia and the queen, but still made no move to aid them. His focus was on the forgotten chest the knights were trying to protect.

_The Silver Heart. It must be in there!_

The captain very nearly broke cover, anxious to retrieve the little animal figurine that, according to the servant werewolf, could cure the curse. He wanted that cure for Rowan.

He rose from a crouch, but that's when the beast appeared.

Merlin burst from the trees, already half disfigured with the transformation. Baldwin watched with curious revulsion as he mutated into the monster he was. Few others noticed him until the change was complete and he howled into the sky. After that, it was chaos.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Arthur smacked into an invisible wall as he burst into the clearing, the air whooshing from his lungs and his chest catching, preventing him from drawing more. He stared in open horror at the massacre occurring before his very eyes.

Merlin was ripping everyone apart. Both men and women lost life and limb to the monster that raged among them. Terror gripped them, making them forget the silver-edged blades in their possession. Even those with spears and bows were panicking too much to do anything but scream as the servant disemboweled them and tore their throats out ravenously. Merlin had lost control.

"No, no, STOP!" Arthur roared, dashing into the clearing. The servant didn't hear him, continuing to slaughter every Blackhand in sight, maiming if he didn't have time to kill. In the minute that he was the beast, he'd slain almost a score of them. And he wasn't finished.

Merlin pounced on a fleeing Blackhand and bit the back of his head, giving a savage twist to snap his neck. Then he lunged at a woman with two axes and pulled either arm off, leaving her to bleed to death in the dark-stained grass. Two more unfortunates found their innards spilled on the ground, another lost his heart as the servant ripped his chest open and...

Arthur looked away, his empty stomach clenching with nausea, only to find himself staring into the glassy gaze of a fallen Blackhand, his throat but a messy open wound, gushing blood and pungent vomit.

Facing away from Merlin's massacre wasn't enough to block out the sounds, to ignore the visions Arthur saw when he closed his eyes.

_That could be me_.

His eyes opened again in revulsion of the thought.

_That could be me tearing people apart like parchment_.

Arthur couldn't allow that to happen. He couldn't allow blood, neither innocent nor guilty, be spilled from his loss of control, like it had for his servant. It must end.

And he must be the one to end it.

"Merlin!" he bellowed, lurching towards the creature. "_Merlin!_"

The beast did not recognize his name. Arthur picked up the nearest thing—a round shield—and threw it like a discus. The buckler cracked against Merlin's back, and the beast yelped. When he turned around, however, the first thing he saw was Baldwin, the Silverblood captain, attacking a chest with an axe.

Over the past several days, Arthur had never grown a liking for Baldwin. He saw little to respect in him, save that he cared for his people and upheld his duty even in the face of death. There, it ended. The king thought him too fickle, too unpredictable and cunning. But that was no reason to let him die.

"BALDWIN!"

The Silverblood glanced up guiltily, causing Arthur to wonder what was in that chest he was trying to open, but then Baldwin whirled around in spawning horror, watching as Merlin bore down on him.

Arthur had seconds. He snatched a spear from a Blackhand who was standing nearby in a horrified stupor, and charged.

Baldwin held his axe protectively before him as Merlin pounced, knocking him to the earth on his back. The servant made to bite his throat, but the axe handle was shoved between his jaws, and Merlin snarled, gnawing at the wood in frustration. Baldwin howled as claws ripped at his body, and he would have been torn limb from limb had Arthur not arrived in time.

The silver-tipped point of the spear drove into Merlin's left shoulder. The beast's sturdy stance slammed against Arthur, and the spear shaft shattered as he fell to the ground. The werewolf yowled in utter agony, the silver of the blade making his blood boil like flaming oil. It was a horrible sound, and Arthur cringed, hating the knowledge that he had just willingly impaled his friend with a spear.

But a little bit of silver was not enough to repel him. Ignoring the blade, the creature once more descended on the cowering Baldwin, bristling with animal rage.

Arthur's hand brushed on a fallen sword. He grasped its hilt, and time seemed to slow as he got to his feet.

"Merlin, no!"

Finally, he had seized the beast's full attention.

And that was his worst mistake.

Without breaking stride, Merlin turned on Arthur, almost as though he had been feinting towards Baldwin to lure the king closer. Now Arthur froze, fear locking his limbs as the monstrous beast pounced. The sword was forgotten. Sense was slow in the coming. And then Merlin was upon him, crushing him to the ground with his colossal weight.

Pain was smothered by the king's terror, fearing like he had never feared before. Dark beast-eyes bore into his stormy blues, and then the werewolf roared, jaws wide and flashing bloodied ivory teeth.

It was the end, Arthur knew. The man, the friend, who'd sworn to protect him was now to kill him. He was to become one of the many hapless victims of a vicious killer, a part of the tragedy and woes that will be written in the archives, and forgotten in time.

He wasn't ready. He wanted to close his eyes. He wanted to shut himself off from the world, to shut off from the pain. Yet he could not. He could only stare into the endless gaze of death and doom, and it was staring back with all the mercy of the devil.

But it was to his surprise when seconds slugged past and his throat wasn't torn out by his best friend's gnashing jaws.

Slowly, surely, the gaping maw closed. The wrinkled muzzle smoothed, and the growls diminished to a low rumble, then silence. Arthur stared into the beast's eyes...which, even as he watched, were changing. Once dark, fathomless pits without pity or remorse, they now revealed sorrow, anxiety, pain. The pupils contracted as though in a brighter light, and the king saw the expanding sapphire rings reflect his own frightened face. He was seeing what the werewolf was seeing, what his friend was seeing.

"...Merlin?"

The beast whimpered, ears falling flat in submission and shame as he crawled off the king, backing away on all fours. He glanced around, noticing for the first time the carnage he had wrought upon the Blackhand Order. His head snapped from one ravaged corpse to another, looking, if anything, stupefied. Then stupefaction turned to confusion, realization, and finally horror, and Arthur saw the eyes widen in the darkness. Merlin whined again, staring at the king as though desperate to tell him, "No, it wasn't me._ It wasn't me!_"

Arthur felt a hot dampness on his face. It took him a while to realize that it wasn't sweat or blood. He slowly rolled onto his side, pushing himself up, which only caused Merlin to cower.

_But how can this be? It's like...he knows what he's done...Is that possible?_

"Merlin? Is that...is it you?"

Arthur's words coaxed yet another whimper of despair, and the servant shrank back like a beaten dog, ears down.

_I didn't do this!_ he seemed to cry. _It wasn't my fault! Don't hurt me_.

He stepped on a corpse, yelped and jumped away. Then he noticed his fur, blood-caked and spattered with gore. If a werewolf could faint, Arthur was sure this one would have.

"Merlin...can you understand me?"

The beast reacted to his voice, looking at him imploringly. Arthur took a step towards him, and the last of Merlin's resolve shattered. He turned and fled, bounding away on all fours and not slowing once he entered the trees.

"Wait, wait—_wait!_ Merlin!"

* * *

**Warning, warning, double update inbound.**

"**What makes a man a man? A friend of mine once wondered. Is it his origins? The way he comes to life? I don't think so. It's the choices he makes. Not how he starts things, but how he decides to end them." ~ John Myers (Hellboy)**


	35. A Conspiracy Unveiled

~35~ A Conspiracy Unveiled

"Wait, wait—_wait!_ Merlin!"

Arthur ran after the servant, ignoring the jar of pain he felt with every stride. He was gasping by the time he reached the trees, and a flare of red blinded him as every wound protested the abuse.

_No, must find him!_

"Arthur, Arthur!"

"Gwen!" The king stopped and turned, watching his lover run towards him. She threw herself into his arms, and he tried not to wince as she embraced him and all his wounds.

"Oh, thank gods you're all right," she sobbed, her tears soaking through his shirt at the shoulder.

"It was foolish for you to come here," Arthur hissed, hugging her back all the same. "Merlin I could understand, but—"

"Merlin! Where is he?" Gwen pulled away, looking worriedly up at him. He shook his head.

"He ran off."

"Then let's go after him." She was already hastening into the woods when Arthur stopped her.

"You can't go in there! Wait here. I'll—"

Gwen yanked her arm free. "This is my fault! I let him construct a plan and not relay the whole thing to me. Had I known...Had I known that he was going to..." She shook her head morosely, then stared defiantly at Arthur. "I'm not leaving him now. Nor am I leaving you."

The sounds of Merlin's retreat were fast fading. Had he been anything else but a massive beast, his traces would already be gone. As it was, he left a trail too obvious to miss.

Arthur's face was hard. "Fine. Let's go."

He didn't need much light. All he needed was his nose. The sharp, metallic tang of fresh blood and the musty odour of wild animal fur led him deeper east, through foliage thick and thin, over streams, around boulders, and it was just over a mile later when Arthur realized that Merlin was slowing down. He could still hear him crashing through the undergrowth ahead. What was wrong?

_The spear! _Arthur abruptly remembered. _I had driven a silver spear into his shoulder...Oh no..._

He was on the brink of calling his name when he bit his cheek. He didn't want Merlin to know that he was still being followed, else it scare him off again.

The king and queen paused, listening as the rustling was cut off entirely. Merlin had stopped, and was probably hiding. Switching to stealth mode, they continued on, Arthur following his nose when the trail became questionable. It was when he stumbled over a thin branch that he realized that his fatigue had caught up with him.

_Could use your help right now_, he growled at the werewolf within, but felt nothing stir. No rush of adrenaline, no urge to leap back into a run. Because there was no discernible danger, he was on his own.

Gwen saw his distress and tried to help him, but he shrugged her gently off.

"I'm all right," he said softly, continuing on and trying to ignore his shaking limbs.

They reached an area where a great tree once stood, but had fallen, the roots ripping from the ground and the trunk tearing down its brethren around it. The gaping, rotted maw that was revealed had hollowed out over the years, leaving a dark space like a cave in the trunk.

Arthur and Gwen passed that space, but then the king halted, hesitating.

"What's wrong?" Gwen asked, frowning in consternation. Arthur shrugged.

"I don't know. The trail ends here." He sniffed, disregarding how foolish it felt, and took in the musty and metallic smells again. Animal fur and blood. Two things that generally didn't coincide well.

Arthur turned back and went another way. Same thing.

"It's...like he stopped here..." He paused, then slowly looked to the fallen tree and the cave of its trunk. He took a step towards it, hesitated, then strode at it purposefully.

When he looked into the depths of the trunk, pushing aside roots and moss, he saw nothing at first. But Merlin's scent was strong, and it only took Arthur's eyes a few seconds to adjust, allowing him to see the faint outline of the black beast.

The werewolf cowered and whined as he realized that he'd been spotted, trying to push himself further into the tunnel of the hollow tree with no success. He was favouring his injured shoulder, where a shard of silver spear still resided. Arthur could see the glint of white in Merlin's eyes, flashing fearfully and shamefully.

"Merlin," he said softly, reaching into the cave. The beast snarled, teeth flashing beneath a wrinkled muzzle. Arthur pulled his hand back quickly and Merlin fell still again. Whether or not the servant's mind was in the forefront, animal instincts still raged within. The king's chest felt hollow.

"Merlin...I'm...I'm so sorry it has come to this. I never meant for this to happen."

He could only hear his servant's breathing, rough and slow.

"I shouldn't have made you come that day, when we ambushed the Blackhands. It isn't your place to fight by my side. Putting you in danger...it's not fair. And...I'm sorry."

Merlin, of course, said nothing. Only his deep breathing dishevelled the deepening silence, but even that seemed to mellow, as though Arthur was speaking too quietly and he needed to hear better.

"Arthur..." It was Gwen, silent until then. "I don't think he can understand you, Arthur."

The king shook his head. "No, I think he can." He looked back to the servant. "Merlin, will you come out?"

The werewolf shuffled, yet made no move to emerge from his hiding place. But he had reacted to the request, which was a start.

Arthur's joints were cramping from bowing over, and he shifted, almost in time to mask the sharp crack of a twig breaking somewhere in the trees behind him. He managed to catch the sound and turned his head. He sniffed, but smelled nothing, saw nothing. He looked back into the trunk cave.

"Merlin," he said softly, "please."

Finally, to his surprise and relief, the servant inched forward. He was cautious, timid, sniffing as he limped towards the opening. He flinched once as Arthur backed up to let him out, but recovered the ground just as quickly, ears flat and head ducked low. Submissive.

Arthur grinned. "A coward even when the most feared creature in Albion." He was astonished to hear a snort and see a flash of emotion in Merlin's eyes. Annoyance and exasperation. There was no mistaking it in those sapphire rings.

Gwen grasped Arthur's arm as Merlin's head emerged, poking out from between the roots gradually, staring at the king all the while. It was as though he were afraid Arthur was going to hurt him.

Holding up his unarmed hands, Arthur backed a few paces to give him space, and he saw a foot paw step out. It was then that they all heard more rustling in the foliage, and turned to see someone rising from the bushes, already drawing a longbow.

"_For the Silverbloods!_" the man roared, and released the arrow.

"Tiberius, no!" Gwen shrieked, but too late.

Time slowed. Arthur's blood peaked with a splurge of adrenaline, and he saw the course of the deadly arrow. He moved to intercept it.

He heard Merlin snarl in fury as he fell, an indescribable pain in his right pectoral. At the close range, the arrow had pierced him right through, the bloodied silver tip poking out his back by almost a foot.

Arthur gasped, his breath catching, hitting the ground as a black blur flew overhead, charging at Tiberius with the rage of a wild boar. He heard Gwen scream, Merlin roar, and the Silverblood howl with terror. The king's vision flickered and he coughed, struggling to breathe around the arrow in his lung.

For several moments, Arthur listened vacantly to the sounds of Tiberius being ripped to pieces, fighting to stay conscious. But his vision was fading, and he became only half-aware when he saw the werewolf looking down at him, fresh blood dripping from his jaws and hands. The king didn't react when Merlin picked him up, cradling him gently with one arm, then bounded off into the trees in some undetermined direction.

The servant didn't move very quickly, perhaps because he was waiting for Gwen? Arthur was too befuddled to think clearly. He just felt...so _tired_...

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Baldwin stumbled through the undergrowth, bowing with the weight of the chest. He put all his concentration on haste, disregarding stealth and direction. He figured that he was going north, but only focused on getting as far away from the clearing and Blackhand encampment as possible.

He didn't know where Tiberius went, but wasn't concerned about that either. His sole goal was what was in that chest.

_The Silver Heart_, he thought. _At last. It is my destiny to cure Rowan, to reinstate the greatest Silverblood leader ever to take the position...Oh, how he will reward me, how our kin will revere me_...

Finally, the captain was forced to stop. He set the chest down noisily and leaned on a tree to catch his breath.

_Not as young as I once was_, he thought humorously, with a hint of forlornness.

He heard Rowan howl, and he definitely sounded closer than he did two minutes ago. Baldwin wasted no more time.

Pushing the chest onto its bottom, he inspected the lock. If he had the tools, he might have been able to pick it. As it was, he had a hand axe in his belt, which he drew in preparation.

_Now, if I hit it right here_...

"I'm sure it would be a lot easier with _this_."

Baldwin whirled around, axe upheld, to see Argus Vane, cult master of the Blackhands, step free of the trees. There was something small and glinting in his fist.

"A key," he said, eyes narrowing. He held out a hand. "Give it to me. As a superior officer, I command—"

Vane was already shaking his head. "You have no power over us, old man. You and your kin are but a rotting branch of a great tree. A good strong wind will deal with you."

"No, it is _you_ who are nothing! Your kind has betrayed the Silverblood lines. You have corrupted our powerful families with mundanes and foul deeds. You are not worthy to carry the Heart, to call yourselves of the blood."

Vane grinned wolfishly. "Strange. I was just saying the same thing about you a month or so ago." The smile vanished. "You are all cowards. You could not see, _would_ not see, the power in your grasp! Why waste such influence when you could use it? We would have brought back the importance of the Silverblood. By infecting a renowned king in Albion, we would have become invaluable once more!"

Baldwin flared. "And you would do this by using the greatest Silverblood leader in our history? Throw him in a cage with other beasts, disrespect the very creed we have lived and _died_ for—!"

"We gave Rowan a name!" Vane roared, taking two steps towards Baldwin. "We struck fear into the hearts of mundanes. Our plan was disrupted when the Pendragon king ambushed us over a fortnight ago, before we were ready. It was only because he was there in person, and by the quick thinking of Remus, the Keeper of the Heart, that our plan was allowed to proceed." There was a dark glint in his eye, and he leered at Baldwin. "Now all that needs to be done, is eliminate you and your prying company, then spread the word that the great Arthur Pendragon has become the most feared creature on this god-forsaken island. People will call upon _us_ for aid, for the salvation only _we_ can give. And we shall take back what is rightfully ours! Respect, and the honourable Silverblood name!"

Baldwin had never felt such rage. His knuckles were as white as the moon on the handle of his axe. "So...this is what it's been all about, since the very beginning," he said, his voice trembling with curbed fury. "You take the name Blackhand, sic Rowan on innocent people and infect a good man, a great king. And when word got out, the Blackhands would 'disappear,' to be replaced with the true name of Silverblood. You would place yourselves as Albion's guardians, wallow in the glories like pigs in the mud—"

"You catch on real quick, _captain_," Vane sneered, words oozing sarcasm. And his foe struck.

Baldwin swung his axe, but the Blackhand dodged, drawing his sword. Without hesitation, the captain continued his attack, fury making him clumsy and careless. Vane scoffed him.

"We would have embraced you with welcome arms, Baldwin, but for _you_ and your so-called command. _You_ condemned your family to a lifetime of exile. The taint in your blood shall not mar the lines any further!"

"Lies! You have betrayed the lines from the very moment you sought to use the sacred duty of protecting Rowan for your twisted games! I shall not allow this to continue any further. I shall be the one to bring him back, and he and I will eliminate the beast blood together. You will not see that day."

Axe and sword met in a clash, and Vane glared into Baldwin's furious gaze. "You cannot cure the beast blood, you old fool! How many of centuries of Silverblood teachings have flown over your swollen head? It isn't possible! _We_ would have found it by now if—"

He cut himself off, startled by the look on Baldwin's face. "What? What is...?" He glanced behind him for a brief second, wary of a trick, but slowly turned again, blanching.

Rowan in all his beastly glory was perched on a dead tree, which lay only half fallen, as though it had fainted and its brethren took it upon themselves to hold it up. His claws burrowed into the mossy trunk, the silvery outline of his fur glinting in the moonlight. A low growl emitted from his throat as he regarded the puny humans below it.

Baldwin and Vane slowly looked at each other. Then it was impossible to see who moved faster towards the chest, which contained the much-desired Silver Heart.

That was their mistake.

Rowan snarled at the sudden movement, and pounced.

It was impossible to say whose arm belonged to whom or whether one man was killed before the other by the time Rowan left, if one died from blood loss or from shock, if either of them managed to defend himself from the start. No one knew, and no one would ever know. For the sake of deterring scarred thoughts, perhaps it was better that way.

* * *

"**Rest in pieces." ~ Barney Ross (The Expendables II)**


	36. The Healer's Hands

~36~ The Healer's Hands

A dull ache prodded him awake two days later. At least, they told him it was two days. Arthur certainly felt refreshed when he finally opened his eyes, if not a little tender.

Gwen was the first thing he saw when he awoke, and he wouldn't have had it any other way. She sighed, smiling in relief as he smiled weakly back.

"They told me you would make it, but I saw that arrow," she gasped, leaning over to kiss his cheek. "I didn't know if I should believe them, but..." She kissed his lips next, lightly dampening his face with her tears.

"Who are 'they?'" Arthur finally managed to ask when she withdrew. He was in a tent, he now saw, with odd scarves and dream-catchers donning the sides. They seemed vaguely familiar.

As if answer to his question, a tall man in ragged robes stepped into view, someone the king didn't recognize the slightest.

"Well met, Arthur Pendragon," he said. "My name is Bowen. You are in the care of the Druids now. Do not be alarmed," he added as the king went to sit up. "I give you my full confidence that you and your men will not be harmed."

"Druids," said Arthur, mouth dry. "But...how...?"

"Merlin," said Gwen, and the king looked to her in question. "After you were shot, Merlin brought you here. He showed the Druids the knights as well. They are all fine."

"Where is here?" he asked, and Bowen answered.

"Mistwood, my home," he replied, nodding his head once. "You and your company are welcome to stay as long as you need." He departed without another word.

Arthur's words kept catching in his throat, his tongue a flab of leather. "I...I don't understand..." He suddenly pulled his blanket off, revealing the lack of wounds on his person. No scars, cuts or bruises from the abuse of the past few weeks. All that remained were two red slashes – the wounds of silver blades – a star-shaped mark on his chest, where the silver arrow had passed through him, and the gruesome scars of the werewolf bite on his side.

"They Healed you," said Gwen softly. "Arthur, they Healed you with magic."

She must have seen the flicker of alarm in his eyes, for she quickly grasped his hand. "You were fading, Arthur. Without them, you would have died. Elyan almost bled to death, and Percival's arm might have been ruined by his wound. The Druids saved you all."

"And...and Merlin brought us to them," the king quietly, staring off into nothing. There was a long pause, then, "Where is he?"

Gwen glanced away. "Gone."

"...Gone, what do you mean, gone...? Gwen?"

She sighed, then looked out the exit of the tent. "After he brought you here and led the Druids to the knights, he left. I haven't seen him for two days."

"He just...left."

Gwen shook her head. "I'm sorry, Arthur. I didn't know that he was going to leave."

The king slowly sat back against the headrest of the cot, blinking and staring off into space. "But...where does he think he can go? He kind of sticks out in a crowd – he's covered in ruddy _fur!_"

For some obscure reason, he found his own statement funny. He chuckled to himself, but it was dry and hollow, like an old sea shell. But he felt dry and hollow. His servant was gone, probably forever. The inadvertent chuckle quickly faded, and Arthur made to stand up.

"Bowen says you must rest," Gwen protested, holding him down. "And I can't help but agree with him. Stay here. I'll get you some food and drink." She stood, hands wringing before her nervously.

Ever disobedient, Arthur waited a few seconds after she left, then rolled off the cot, using the chair to help him stand. He noticed the Triskelion, the mark of the druids, branded into the canvas of the tent. He felt a flutter of unease in his chest, but took a deep breath and stepped out into the light.

He was in a glade surrounded by pines. Druids, men, women and children, young and old, milled about doing whatever it was Druids do. Some played music. Others tended fires and gathered wood. The young ones played in an amongst the tents, hide-and-seek and chase, no different from the children who played in Camelot's streets.

None of them really paid the king any attention, other than giving a friendly nod should he catch their eye. Perhaps they didn't know who he was. Perhaps they didn't want to be rude and intrusive. Perhaps Druids didn't care about kings, and treated everyone equally.

_We condemned them. And we knew nothing about them_, Arthur thought flatly. He recalled his vow, given to a restless spirit so it may find peace, of respecting the Druids, allowing them into the borders and settle where they pleased. Suddenly, the respect didn't seem enough.

"Ah, 'tis the great Arthur Pendragon I have heard so much about."

Arthur turned at the voice, finding an olive-skinned, beautiful woman standing near the entrance of his tent. Had he walked by her without seeing her?

"Yes, I suppose I am. Who are you?"

The Druid smiled. "I am Gabriela, and I had the honour of meeting your servant a few days past."

"Merlin?" Arthur remembered Gwen telling him that the servant had brought him right to the Druids, as though he'd known exactly where to find them. "Why is meeting him an honour?"

Gabriela smiled wider. "You must be hungry, and we have much to discuss..."

* * *

Arthur regarded the platter of goat cheese garnished with mint leaves before him, not really seeing it. He was aware of Gwen beside him, who had long since forgiven him for leaving the tent against her insistence that he rest, and of Gabriela, sitting across the table from him.

"So...Merlin came here looking for a cure," he said slowly, still staring at the cheese. "You took him to an old shrine where a priestess of the Ancient Kingdom removed his curse and gave him the means to lift mine."

"That is correct," said the Druid shaman impassively.

Arthur was still puzzled. "But...that was _him_ last night, I was sure of it. Don't tell me there's _another_ werewolf out there!"

He felt Gwen shift beside him, and immediately glanced over at her. A horrible suspicion was already dawning on him, but he wished with all his heart that it wasn't true.

"Arthur," she began slowly. "Four days ago, you turned again."

The king nodded. "I could tell as much...What happened?"

She shifted again, looking down at her wringing hands. The spreading vines of anxiety and despair were now strangling Arthur, and he turned his upper body towards her, pressing his impatience and undivided attention on her. "What happened, Gwenevere?"

She glanced once up at him, but quickly looked back down. She was too late to hide the tears in her eyes. Mumbling softly, her reply was short and inaudible.

Arthur took one of her hands. "Gwen. Tell me."

She sobbed once. "You bit him."

The king blanched, hand tightening around hers. "What?"

"You bit Merlin, Arthur. You gave back the curse before he could rid it of you. I didn't want to tell you, but..." She shook her head, sniffling. "I'm so sorry."

Arthur's stomach turned into a block of ice. His throat closed, but he forced out, "I...I bit him." He recalled seeing his servant favouring his left shoulder and arm when he was rescuing the king from the waggon prison two days past. Arthur had barely given it a second thought. Now, though...

"What have I done?"

Gabriela shook her head. "No, _you_ have done nothing. It was the beast. You were not in your right mind—"

"Spare me. Merlin is my servant, my responsibility." Arthur stood, all business. "It's my obligation to find him. Will you help me?"

Gwen rose to her feet, taking his hand in hers. "I will not abandon him. Not when he needs us most."

Arthur heard leaves rustling behind him, and turned, guarding his expression when he saw his knights standing there, looking well-rested. He was so relieved to see them that he didn't have the heart to feel annoyed by their eavesdropping.

"We remain by your side, as always, sire," said Leon, with a slight inclination of his head. "Of that you can be sure."

The others also bowed their heads, and Arthur returned the gesture. "I'll be glad to have you with me."

"And you'll be wanting this, as well."

Arthur faced Gabriela, noticing the wolf figurine in her hands. Gwen stiffened.

"The Silver Heart."

The shaman nodded. "It was found in a chest in the woods the other day. It still bears Larentia's gift."

"Larentia's gift?" asked Arthur, puzzled.

"It's the cure, Arthur," said Gwen softly. "Merlin says you only need to touch it, and the werewolf will be gone." The queen herself looked ready to snatch it from Gabriela's grasp and shove it into the king's.

But Arthur was not to be fooled. "Which means it could cure Merlin as well."

There was an awkward silence. Gabriela was the only indifferent one. "Yes, it can, Arthur Pendragon. But tell me this: Would Merlin have wanted you to shrug off what he sacrificed so much to try and present to you?"

"But—"

"He did it all for _you_, my lord," she continued over him. "He had his chance. We all mourn his failure, but do not insult his attempts to save you." She held out the Silver Heart. "To save you, not as a king, not as a master, but as a friend."

Arthur stared at the animal figurine dully, watching it gleam in the afternoon sun. This was his salvation. This was Merlin's doom.

"I...I cannot take it."

"Arthur." Leon stepped forward. "What the Druid says is true. You are a king. You cannot be replaced like a..." He swallowed and cut himself off, but his intended message was clear. The king's expression grew dark.

"Like a _what_, Leon? Like a servant? I'm sorry, but as I recall, this servant willingly joined us to face and drive away the Great Dragon when it besieged Camelot. This servant sacrificed himself to save me from the Dorocha. This servant has been with us through hell and faced all its demons, and if he was any less lucky, he would have died fifty times over." Arthur crossed his arms. "And I, for one, am not ready to let some beast take away a brave man because we were too damn cowardly to go after him and stop it."

Gwaine shuffled his feet. "But that's just it, isn't it? How are we going to stop him? And before that, how are we going to _find_ him?"

"There is one thing I have not yet told you." It was Gabriela. "Before she vanished into the wood, Hecate the priestess told Merlin that she has old friends in old places."

Arthur grimaced. "What's that suppose to mean? Are there more priestesses out there?"

Gabriela shrugged. "Not that I know of. But there are so many old places in Albion. I suppose Hecate meant the oldest of the old. The ancient."

The knights looked thoughtful.

"Daobeth?"

"Isle of the Blessed?"

Gabriela shook her head. "Older."

"Older," Arthur repeated, fingering his chin. "What could be older than the Isle of the Blessed? It's been there since the time of the Old Religion."

"And there are places that have been around since before the Old Religion. Surely, my lord, you don't think the Old Religion was there when time itself was born?"

Arthur frowned. Of course not. But this wasn't helping him at all.

"Which way did he go?" he asked, and Gabriela nodded with her head.

"Northwest. I suspect he makes for the Forest of Agmar."

The Forest of Agmar. A cynical wood that lay just south of Camelot's border. Arthur used to hunt there as a prince, but after an incident with a unicorn...

"He told me one thing before he left," Gabriela continued impassively. "And that was, 'I'm going to find the Wild.'"

Arthur looked puzzled. "The wild? The wilderness is all around us! What does he mean?"

Gabriela shook her head. "The wild is not the Wild, yet the Wild is wild."

The king's expression must have been quite comical to see, wrinkled with confusion and exasperation, but the knights were wise enough to hold their silence.

"Whatever. I will find him," he said, leaving no room for deterrence.

"But he's got a two day head start, and there's no way you're getting anywhere fast without a horse," said Gwaine. "You can't get near them without them panicking. You're going to have to—"

"That, we can help you with," said Gabriela, soft but still cutting the knight clean off. "We shall help you prepare for your quest."

* * *

The ruffian knight did have a point when he said Arthur couldn't go near a horse without it bucking and rearing in terror. He wasn't about to let the others go without him, however.

"There must be some way of convincing them that you're not about to maul them," said Gwaine thoughtfully, running a hand through his hair.

The king shifted impatiently; they did not know how much time was left before his third and final turn. The suggestion was offered that he learn to control the werewolf like Merlin did, but they were advised against it.

"It is a risky task," Gabriela had warned. "Merlin was fortunate, and had the aura of Larentia to help guide him. Your best bet would be to take the Silver Heart into your hands."

Arthur had refused it, and would continue to refuse until he saw Merlin face to face. He wasn't exactly sure why, he just felt that it would be the right thing.

"If I do turn, however," he told the knights. "Do not hesitate to kill me. I would be lost anyway." The knights glanced at each other anxiously, but said nothing. Having an endless argument wasn't going to help them find Merlin any faster, so Arthur said nothing else.

The Druids came forward and enchanted the horses, enchanted them to keep calm so Arthur could be near them. They said that the spell wouldn't last forever, but it might hold long enough for them to reach the Forests of Agmar and find Merlin.

If anything, Arthur trusted the horse even less when the enchantment was placed upon it and it grew docile in his presence. When he mounted, he half-expected it to immediately buck and twist and throw him clear. It shifted under his weight, but otherwise remained calm.

"If it throws me..."

"Come on, we still have five hours of sunlight," called Leon. "We can cover a substantial amount of ground in that time."

Arthur glanced at the map Gabriela had given him, a map with the trail to the Forests of Agmar. She'd told him that Merlin hadn't taken a horse, and so, despite his two day head start, the knights might be able to overcome him quickly, before...

_Before...what? _Arthur asked himself, but his thoughts were interrupted by the sound of trotting hooves. He turned to see the Silverblood woman, Sophia, ride up next to him. He didn't know much about her, save what the knights had told him, but she looked vaguely familiar...

"You're going out to find the werew—to find Merlin. I'm coming with you." Sophia sounded so sure and matter-of-fact, Arthur didn't disagree. The knights seemed to trust her, in any case, and that was often enough for him.

* * *

**For those suffering from PMD (post-Merlin depression) I found this remarkable video on youtube that you just may want to look at. Gave me a funny feeling in my chest watching it...**

**It's called "Merlin Cast – Goodbye and Thank You" by MP26Pro. Anyone who hasn't yet watched/completed season 5, be assured that there are no spoilers.**

**Go on. Sometimes a good, healthy cry is all you need :)**

"**When the night has come, and the land is dark, and the moon is the only light we'll see...No, I won't be afraid, no, I won't be afraid...Just as long as you stand, stand by me." ~ The Beatles ('Stand by Me')**


	37. The Forest of Agmar

**I just quickly want to say that I've done some revising over the past couple weeks. I've sort of tied some things closer together, made them more relevant and meaningful. The biggest change was adding a character named Argus Vane, cult master of the Blackhands (yeah, cult, not order anymore). Claudius is still in this but he's just a soothsayer. I'll be updating the chapters soon.**

**I wanted to mention this before the final update. I hope no one is half-way through when I change things...**

* * *

~37~ The Forest of Agmar

Merlin's breath rattled worryingly in his chest as he staggered through the ancient forest, half-blinded by pain, half-blinded by the hindering foliage sprouting between the gnarled trunks. Hidden, twisted roots threatened to clasp onto his ankles and cripple him. Sagging beards of moss fell across his head and shoulders like a cloak, scratching any exposed skin with rough, green tendrils.

A surge of pain reddened his vision, and he gasped as cruel claws squeezed his heart. He staggered and fell to his knees, a hand to his chest, struggling to take in enough air. When the fit subsided, Merlin lurched back to his feet and soldiered on. The Wild couldn't be far now.

For almost three days, he'd been trekking the cynical forest, with its deep, hidden gorges, moss-covered foot traps, and a steep disregard of any useful trails. Three days since he'd left Arthur in the care of the Druids, cauterized his own wounds, and departed to find the one place his instincts were pushing him for. He had already driven himself past weariness and into complete exhaustion in his attempts to reach his supposed salvation—revealed to him in his _dreams_—before the silver in his veins stopped his heart. And he felt that time was running short.

His foot slid neatly beneath a raised root, and in his fatigue, he was unable to prevent himself from falling face-first to the uneven ground, flopping like a limp fish. He cried out as he tried to stop himself with his left arm, a shattering pain sending sparks across his vision. The metal shard that yet remained in his flesh continuously leaked poisonous silver in his blood, which was somehow preventing him from being able to Heal any wounds properly. It was why, now, Merlin was on a long and arduous journey to find a place he had not thought about for years until a couple weeks ago, when he dreamed of a familiar forest, and one glade in particular. Even in the dream, he had felt more alive and invigorated than he had ever been in his life. He also turned into a wolf, but he hoped that that wouldn't be part of reality when it came down to it.

Right now, though, the warlock remained on the ground, blinking away stars and tears and frantically trying to retain consciousness. He wasn't sure how he got impaled with the silver blade, but suspected it to be the work of a Blackhand.

_And that Blackhand is probably dead now_, he thought nauseously. _Throat ripped out or chest slashed open or guts spilled all over the ground_...

He tried not to remember anything that had happened that fateful night. Mercifully, he could recall nothing about the killings. _Un_mercifully, he had nightmares.

They all started the same, with him running freely through the trees, the wind in his hair and the earth soft underfoot. But then he would scent fresh blood, and the temptation would be too great to resist, no matter how fast or how far he fled. He would turn, and then he would find a group of people – sometimes armed, sometimes not – and slaughter them all. Usually, they were Blackhands. Other times, they were knights of Camelot or innocent villagers. Always, there was Arthur.

The king always looked the same in the dream, the same as when Merlin had regained control a few days prior, just before he murdered him. He recalled Arthur's face vividly, a courageously defiant display leering at the prospect of doom, yet with an undercoat of pure terror that Merlin could not forget.

Either way, Merlin had been robbed of sleep for the past few days, by both dreams of horror and dreams of the Wild, and he felt that if he didn't get proper rest soon, he would simply go mad.

_Proper rest...proper food...proper drink_... The cycle ran over and over in his head, a continuous circle of need that tore at his mind as viciously as the werewolf in his body. Having finished the water skin hanging at his side, he felt that continuing on was nigh on impossible. Even the beast was culled, the specks of silver smothering its efforts to break free again. He was weak, discouraged, and alone.

The one thing he did have, however, was an unconscious instinct. He knew exactly where the Wild was.

Merlin glanced up at the stone statue in his path – a tall, hooded figure with its hands clasped before it, the ends of its long monk robes piling on the ground. Its hands, oddly, were black, as though made of a different rock. There was a stone owl perched on its shoulder, regarding the forest around it with cool disinterest. The statue was gradually becoming consumed by lichen and ivy, but it was still unnerving to look at. It was also the very same one he'd seen in his dream.

Shuddering, Merlin bowed over and staggered on. His head swam with vertigo, but he managed to not fall over. He felt that he wouldn't have the strength to stand up again if he collapsed.

A steep-sided, rocky gorge opened up before him, slicing into the earth like a laceration. Merlin eyed it warily, trying to ignore the fog demons that swirled in the mists. A crow cawed somewhere above him, and he flinched.

_Don't be a wimp!_ he snapped at himself, taking the first stride into the ravine. His dream had instructed him to, after all.

More than once, his foot ended up in a puddle of icy water, or his shirt snagged on a root, desperately twisting its way out of the walls of the gorge. He was fortunate if he ever saw more than ten feet in front of him. Mostly, he went blind.

He judged a half mile was consumed beneath his staggering feet before he threw up. The worms burrowing into his stomach had proved too much, but he felt no better after a repulsive gush of black bile burst from between his lips and spattered over the mossy stones, mixing with the thin trickle of water running at the bottom of the gorge.

Merlin gagged, then fell on his hands and knees and vomited again, eyes streaming, nose running sickly. He coughed, wincing as every jerk ripped pain throughout his whole body.

_Is that blood?_ he wondered, staring at the putrid black substance oozing over the mossy gorge floor.

He was shaking with fever, he realized, not just fatigue. His face dripped sweat and his heart raced like a jackrabbit's. The silver was taking its toll.

_But the Wild...it must do _something_..._

The ravine finally climbed to reach the surface world once more. Panting heavily, he fell to one knee, propping himself up with one arm.

_No...must...keep going..._

But he could not get up.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

"You know, I think I've had my fair share of thick, relentless forests," Gwaine grumbled, cutting away low branches to clear the way. "Had I known that being a knight included this sort of thing, I would have left Camelot in the hands of Morgana."

"You sound like you single-handedly reclaimed the city yourself," said Elyan, hiding a grin. Gwaine looked to him, exasperated.

"Uh, _yeah_, because I _did_."

"Quiet, you two," Arthur hissed, eyes never ceasing to roam the surrounding trees. "I don't care much for attracting attention, especially unwanted attention."

Gwaine snorted. "With all due respect, sire, your face is scarier than anything we'd find in this forest—"

Percival's horse squealed as a fox burst from the foliage before it and darted across its path. He tried to calm the steed, but it tossed its head, nostrils flared and hooves stamping the soft earth incessantly. Its unease spread to the other horses, which whickered and shifted in anxious malaise.

"Druid magic or not, these horses aren't going any further," Leon declared, dismounting. "They can't make it through _that_." He nodded at the ever thickening forestland ahead. He didn't mention that the spell, cast by the Druids to keep them calm around Arthur, was wearing thin.

"If we let them go, will they find their own way home?" Gwen wondered aloud, also climbing down.

"I should think so," said Sophia, the Silverblood. "And if they remain together, they'll be able to fend off any predator."

With slight reluctance, the company released the horses, turning them and patting them on the rear to get them going. Once the beasts vanished into the darkness of evening, they continued their own journey, relying on the map Gabriela had given them.

"There should be a statue nearby," Arthur muttered, studying the yellow parchment of the map, "a hooded man, called..." He squinted at the thin, spidery script. "Nocturn..."

"It's here, sire!" Leon called over his shoulder, having scouted ahead. The others hastened to catch up, and lo and behold, there stood the statue, swathed in moss and ivy.

"Arthur, look here," said Elyan excitedly, pointing at the earth. "Tracks."

The king knelt, looking at the footprints in the mud and moss. Someone had passed there, and recently; water had barely begun to fill the indentations.

Gwaine cupped a hand to his mouth. "_Merlin!_"

"Shhh!" Arthur spat, waving a hand to silence the knight. "What the blazes do you think you're doing?"

"We can't be far behind him," said Percival.

The companions had a renewed vigour in their step, and their enthusiasm expanded by tenfold when they came to the entrance of a gorge, just like the map said they should. Something else dampened their spirits, however.

"Arthur, Merlin is struggling," Leon reported, once more checking the servant's tracks. "He keeps staggering and falling. He is weak."

The king said nothing, remaining impassive as he led the way into the ravine. The thick mists engulfed him, and he felt a foreboding sense of claustrophobia put weight on his chest like a cloak of chains. How did he ever stand hunting in these woods?

"Stay close," he said, one hand out before him so he wouldn't walk into the sides. Gwen clasped his other hand, squeezing it for reassurance.

It must have been near a mile long, the gorge was, barely twisting or turning. When they felt the earth rise, they hastened on, heaving a collective sigh of relief as the ravine opened up to the woods again. The trees remained as redoubtable as ever, but at least it wasn't so narrow.

"Sire," said Leon, beckoning the king over. Arthur approached to where the knight had crouched, struggling to see through the foliage.

"What is it?"

Leon pointed. "Merlin fell here. And he didn't get up."

Arthur's face darkened, following the drag marks in the mud with his eyes. He crept forward, moving faster and faster when he realized, indeed, that Merlin didn't get back up. Eventually, he was moving so quickly that he nearly bypassed the servant altogether.

"Merlin? Merlin!"

The youth was at the base of a thick, mossy tree, curled in a shuddering ball. He was coated in foul mud and decaying leaves, but his pasty, sweaty skin was still visible, enunciating the illness that coursed through his veins.

Arthur reached him first and turned him over, immediately checking for a pulse. His neck was cool beneath his fingertips.

"Is he alive?" asked Gwaine, equally alarmed by the sight of Merlin's face. It was deathly pallid, almost grey, but poisonous black veins spider-webbed from his mouth and under his eyes.

Arthur shook his head. "He is...But his pulse is racing. His skin is cold and his breathing doesn't sound good."

"Good" didn't even come close. Merlin's short, desperate intakes of air were rattling and coarse, as though someone was crushing his throat just so.

"Merlin, can you hear me?"

The servant shuddered, curling into a smaller ball yet favouring his left arm. Arthur wasn't sure if he had actually reacted to his voice or reacted to the poison. All he knew was that Merlin was at least semi-conscious.

"Why is he like this?" asked Percival, crouching down beside him.

"The silver," Arthur replied absentmindedly, staring at his friend's ashen, pain-twisted face. He felt a twinge of revulsion at the sight of dried vomit around Merlin's mouth. It was black.

"But you were wounded by a silver arrow, and you aren't like this."

"The silver head went through him," said Sophia, standing just off to the side. "There must still be a spearhead shard in Merlin's shoulder."

"Give me the Heart," Arthur blurted, turning his head to look at Gwen. "The silver is only killing him because of the beast. If we get rid of it, then—"

"Arthur, look." Leon was pulling the collar of Merlin's shirt down, revealing the edges of a cauterized wound.

It was difficult to remove the garment with the servant in his current position, but they managed, and all paled at the sight of the horrific injuries Merlin had sustained. Scratches, bruises, lacerations and abrasions. Gouges on his side and arms. The unmistakable purple blotches signifying broken ribs. The worst, however, was the ruddy mess that was his shoulder.

Punctures that could only be from teeth, massive, gnashing teeth, ruined the muscle beyond proper healing. The size of the wound pointed towards a bear, but Arthur knew what it really was.

"That's where I bit him," he said softly, impassive. His attention moved to the gruesome, festering hole just above Merlin's heart. "And that's where I impaled him with the spear."

Several of the wounds had been pressed on by a burning iron, or perhaps a burning blade, cauterizing and sealing the skin shut. It staunched the bleeding and often prevented infection, but the handiwork was nothing compared to what Arthur and his companions received.

"He must have had the Druids cauterize the wounds before leaving Mistwood." He shook his head. He realized that the wounds on his back were not as well done, and paled. "Or he did it himself."

The knights glanced at each other, horrified malaise as clear as the fear they all felt. Arthur looked to Gwen.

"Give him the Silver Heart," he said. "The silver is what's killing him. We get rid of the werewolf, then maybe he'll be able to retain enough strength..." Even as he spoke, however, his doubt clung to his words like ivy on a tree. Gwaine caught on quickly.

"Arthur," he said, calm, "the werewolf is keeping him alive as much as it is killing him. These wounds..." He shook his head. "You had similar ones, and you barely survived. You would have _died_ without the beast blood."

"In any case, a risk will have to be taken," said Elyan.

Arthur shook his head again.

_I'm sorry, Merlin_, he thought morosely. _This is my fault. I did this to you._

It was then, as though in response to Arthur's thoughts, that Merlin opened his eyes. There was a sharp intake of breath from all who saw the dark, empty gaze that had replaced the bright azure rings. It wasn't Merlin who was staring at them. It was the beast.

"He's going to turn! Ready the Silver Heart," Sophia barked, but it was unnecessary.

Merlin blinked, once, twice, and the darkness receded. The sapphire irises replaced the empty brown, though the pupils remained dilated, his body reacting to the fear of his mind.

Arthur relaxed, having tensed like a bowstring at the shock. "Merlin, can you hear me now?"

Those eyes turned on him, but they just stared, nothing more. He didn't speak or show any signs of recognition. But it didn't matter. With a ragged sigh, his eyes rolled up and the lids fell closed, returning to the state the knights had found him in.

"We need to move," said Sophia. "I don't like the feeling of this place..."

Percival elected to carry Merlin, being the strongest of them all, and he held him with one arm behind the servant's back and the other below his knees.

"He needs to eat more," said the knight loftily. "Weighs near to nothing!"

"Let us find a place to strike camp," said Arthur. "Night is soon upon us."

* * *

Merlin woke again little under ten minutes later. He shifted slightly Percival's arms, and the knight immediately set him down.

"Arthur."

The king turned, managing to smother his concern as he knelt beside his companions.

"Merlin?" Arthur shook his uninjured shoulder lightly, and the servant's eyes cracked open. They flickered up to meet his, and the king saw how dull they were, how lifeless. He was fading.

"What 're...you doin' here?" Merlin murmured, so soft that Arthur had to lean in closer to hear.

"Goon hunting," he replied flatly. His friend dismissed the sarcasm.

"Should be...Druids...safe..."

"We need get him back to the Druids," said Leon. "As quickly as—"

"And what would they do?" the king asked impatiently, turning his head to look up at the knight. "All they did was cauterize his wounds. What difference would it make if we took him back now?"

Leon said nothing, lowering his gaze.

"Let's keep moving," Arthur ordered, standing.

"Leave me...please..." Merlin croaked, but he was ignored as Percival took him back into his arms. He was too weak to keep his own head up.

* * *

They struck camp in a small section that somehow managed to not be drowning in moss and bushes. The damp wood made lighting a fire difficult, but they eventually succeeded before night consumed them entirely.

They heated water and made a rabbit stew with a brace of conies they had caught...Well, they _tried_ to make rabbit stew. It mostly ended up a bubbling mass of slightly-burnt goop, which they somehow managed to make smell like cabbage.

"This is _definitely_ Merlin's area of expertise," said Leon with a wince, staring suspiciously at the small morsel on his spoon.

"I said I'm perfectly capable of making stew," said Gwen reproachfully, patting Merlin's brow with a damp cloth. "Out here, it doesn't _matter_ who I am."

"But, my lady!" Gwaine protested playfully. "'Tis the opportunity to prove that we are more than mere bodyguards to her excellency! To prove that we are more than just clumsy brutes who swing about swords and drink and fart and brag about epic battles to anyone who would listen—"

It was then that Merlin, who was drifting in and out of unconsciousness, stirred feebly in the cocoon of blankets the queen had wrapped him in.

"...Ar...thur..."

The king glanced at him, trying to figure out whether he was speaking in his sleep or not.

"Ar-thur..."

He got up, forcing himself to appear reluctant as he made his way over to the servant. He knelt by his side and felt his forehead.

"He's burning up, worse than before," Arthur announced, withdrawing his hand. As though in defiance of the king's diagnosis, Merlin shivered, teeth chattering.

"When he wakes up, we'll give him some food," said Gwen, standing.

"Give him any of this and he'll wish the silver had already killed him," said Leon, tossing a spoonful of stew over his shoulder and grimacing.

"I told you throwing in random leaves wouldn't taste good," Elyan told Gwaine flatly, having already given up eating the inedible, cabbage-smelling mush.

Gwaine shrugged helplessly. "I see Merlin throwing in green things all the time! I didn't know that there was more to it than that!"

"_Men_," Sophia muttered from the shadows, rolling her eyes.

"Well, I didn't see _you_ helping," Gwaine growled at her. She looked affronted.

"I'm an assassin, not a cook!"

"You two, _please_, you're disturbing Merlin," Gwen scolded, glaring. On cue, Merlin shifted, eyes opening a slit.

"Ar...thur...Find..." He said a word then, a word that was so muddled by a tongue thickened with sleep that Arthur just frowned.

"What did he say?" asked Gwen, also puzzled.

"Sounded like... 'Find aurora,'" said Percival. Gwaine shook his head.

"More like, 'Find a flora.'"

"That doesn't make any sense," said Elyan, brow creased, and the other knight lifted his hands in protest.

"What were we _just_ discussing?" he demanded. "_Plants_. Flora. He wants us to find some kind of plant for the stew—"

"Do you think of anything other than your stomach, Gwaine?" said Leon.

Tired of the bantering, Arthur declared, "He said, 'Find Anhora.'"

The others looked confused.

"What, or who, is Anhora?" asked Percival.

Arthur took a deep breath, staring at the earth between his crouched knees. "Once, many years ago, I killed a unicorn in these woods."

"A unicorn," said Gwaine, incredulous. "I didn't know those actually existed."

"I remember that," Gwen mumbled as Leon nodded in recollection. "And for the next month, there was that terrible plague..."

"So what does this Anhora have to do with anything?" asked Elyan.

"Anhora is the Keeper of the Unicorns. I haven't seen him since..." Arthur trailed off, still refusing to look at anyone. "Why would Merlin want us to find him?"

"Unicorns," Sophia muttered, finger tapping her lips thoughtfully. She jerked. "Wait, what did you say that statue was called on our way here? The hooded man with the black hands and the owl on his shoulder?"

Arthur blinked, then got up and sought the map in a knapsack. Unfolding it, he brought it closer to the fire to read.

"It was called...Nocturn," he said, finding the image on the parchment, granted to him by the Druids.

"So what?" asked Leon, glancing between the king and the Silverblood.

"It is believed that Nocturn created the unicorns," said Sophia, seeming to be only half-listening to what was coming out of her mouth, her eyes focused on another plane. "Nocturn was Larentia's brother, and fellow Archon."

"'I have old friends in old places,'" Gwen blurted. "Gabriela said that that's what the priestess of the Ancient Kingdom had told Merlin after he was cured."

"So...Anhora is that old friend?" said Percival. "How do we find him, then?"

"Kill a unicorn," announced Gwaine with a grin, but he wilted under Arthur's gaze. "It was just a _joke_."

The king shook his head at the now unconscious servant and sighed. "What do you _mean_, Merlin?"

* * *

**Damn I'm so f*cking stressed right now aslfjaslkdjflskdfjlaskf rant rant alskdfjlkasjdlfkjasdlfk TAKE OUT ALL MY FRUSTRATIONS ON THE F*CKING KEYBOARD AKLSDJFKLASJDFLKASJDFKLASKJ DX**

**...Sorry.**

"**Your time will come. You will face the same evil, and **_**you**_** will defeat it." ~ Arwen (The Lord of the Rings)**


	38. Old Friends in Old Places

**The last couple of chapters will be kind of long because that is just how things fitted well. Yep.**

**I hope this one isn't too weird...**

* * *

~38~ Old Friends in Old Places

When he was a boy, Arthur had adopted an old dog, one that had been retired from hunting and spent its days lounging about the castle grounds. Arthur loved that dog, but one day, when he went out seeking it, he couldn't find it anywhere. He checked every nook and cranny the hound usually slept, and grew increasingly angry and depressed when his father denied his wishes for a search party.

"The dog was old," the king had said to his young son with a hint of tolerant amusement. "We will find you a new one."

But Arthur would not give up, and it wasn't until three days later, having slipped away from his tutors, that he found his old friend lying beneath a bush in the Darkling Woods, dead.

He learned that that was what animals often did when they knew they were dying. They would seek solitude, peace, where no other creatures would disturb its passing.

So when Arthur woke up the next morning, surrounded by his knights and his queen by his side, he felt a worm of trepidation slither down his spine and settle somewhere in his belly as he noticed something. Merlin was gone.

Arthur lifted his head, staring vacantly at the place where his servant had been tossing and turning in the night, fighting the poisonous silver in his blood. No one was awake for watch, and so no one saw where he went.

He very nearly blurted out Merlin's name, but curbed his tongue at the last second, and instead detached from Gwen's embrace slowly, carefully. He could see where Merlin had half-crawled, half-staggered into the trees by the trail he had unwittingly laid.

Left in the night, just like the old dog.

_Oh, gods, no_. Stealthily, he followed the tracks, swiftly putting distance between himself and the camp.

The further he went, the less inconspicuous he tried to be. Branches snapped and rustled around him as he ploughed on. He kept one eye on the forest floor, following the trail Merlin had left behind. Though he tried not to acknowledge it, he was using his nose as much—if not more so—than his eyes to track his servant.

_This way...No, that's not him, that's a deer...This blood belongs to him...When did he start bleeding...? How far did he go...? Gods, I'm more mad at him than afraid for him now..._

"Arthur."

The king jumped a league and stumbled, nearly falling on his face before catching his balance. He saw, for only half a moment at the corner of his eye, a figure clad in white, bearing some kind of staff. As soon as he faced about, however, the figure was gone.

But the voice had been recognizable enough. Though he hadn't seen nor heard him for many years, Arthur knew Anhora's voice.

He waited, but the Keeper of the Unicorns did not reappear. He heard only his coarse breathing, the jovial, carefree ditties of songbirds, and the trickle of a brook lying not far away.

_These woods are beautiful_, he thought reverently, unwittingly drifting into a dream land. _I was such a fool. How could I have possibly wanted to ever take anything away from them_...

The brief brush of foliage startled him from his daze, and he glanced up to see a thrush flapping frantically away, vanishing into the rays of the sun gleaming from the east.

Arthur shook his head. Merlin!

His new and enduring burst of speed took him ever further into the woods, remaining on the servant's unwavering, unfaltering trail. His sleep, though fitful, had rejuvenated him, yet he did not feel relaxed; the mixture of anxious malaise, stress and anger was just the concoction to arouse the werewolf. After at least a mile, Arthur paused, closing his eyes and breathing in deeply through his nose to calm himself. He let it out, then inhaled again...only to detect something. He wasn't sure what, but the normally submissive beast blood began to churn, surfacing as it always did when he was about to change into the monster.

_It's the earth_, he realized, inhaling the rich, loamy scent again. He was reacting to the very earth. Whatever it was, it lured the blood, coaxed it awake when it should be dormant.

_What is this place?_

He swallowed, then breathed solely through his mouth and hastened on. The feeling refused to go away, and in fact escalated the further he went. Merlin was yet out of sight.

He stepped into a homely glade, and the sense reached its climax. A sudden spasm of pain wracked his spine, and he cried out, crumbling to the ground in a heap. He writhed, wrestling with the werewolf, which gained strength with every breath.

_I am King Arthur Pendragon!_ he yelled inwardly, ignoring the fire that rippled down his arms and legs in tormenting waves. _I am the lord of Camelot. I do not fear you, beast!_

The werewolf snarled and tore at his stomach, and it would seem that his agonized cries were not unheard.

A cool, decrepit hand grasped his feebly, and he turned his head to see the blurred face of Merlin, regarding him with cool control.

"You must...calm down..." he rasped. He looked even more pale than the night before, more frail.

Arthur stared at him, stared at his drooping, bloodshot eyes, which managed to retain their signature keenness and determination as they bore into him. And it was as though the beast blood fawned before that gaze, for it ceased to fight so vigorously. Instead, it paced in its caged sullenly, awaiting its chance.

"Where 're we?" Arthur asked sluggishly, struggling to lift his head and look around the glade.

Merlin slumped, and the king realized that he was yet too weak to stand. He was lying on his belly, his arms not strong enough to even push himself up.

"You shouldn't have followed me," he whispered coarsely to the ground. His voice was slightly muffled by the carpet of rotting leaves, but Arthur could detect the hue of anger in his words.

"Where are we, Merlin?"

He lifted his head slightly and looked at his master. "Don't you recognize it?"

The king glanced around, studying the trees, the bushes...but nothing clicked.

"This is where you killed the unicorn, Arthur."

Though he feared arousing the werewolf again, Arthur sat up and took a proper look. In his mind's eye, a memory flashed...

Sending Merlin ahead to stir up whatever creature they had been stalking...Seeing the ivory white of the unicorn...Firing without a second thought...Weeks of plague and suffering...

He opened his eyes, not realizing that he had closed them. He had been hunting, and hadn't etched the exact location of the kill in his mind. The area he found himself in now still did not strike a memory chord, but he remembered the unicorn well enough.

"Why here?" he asked his servant, who didn't move.

"This place...has never known disease...destruction...pollution..." Merlin's words were getting softer and softer with each syllable. "You can sense it, can't you? It was why we found a unicorn at all. This is pure Wilderness. I knew I had to come here. I just...knew..." His voice drifted to oblivion like the wind's dying breath, leaving behind an ominous cloak of silence.

Arthur looked to him. "Merlin?" He nudged him with his foot. He sat up in alarm when Merlin flinched and started to shudder, his breath rasping and hiccoughing. He took his friend by the shoulder and turned him over.

"Gods, no..."

The servant's ghostly skin made a corpse seem rosy and warm. He was cold to the touch, his eye sockets hollow, his lips flat and lifeless. He was shivering like a newborn bird.

The silver in his shoulder was sucking the very essence out of him.

Arthur pulled off his jacket and rolled it into a bundle before placing it under Merlin's head. "Hey, wake up." He cleared his throat as his voice snapped, then shook the servant, trying to revive him.

A branch rustled, and Arthur's head jerked up like a startled deer's. He half expected to see Anhora. But it was not.

"My lord?"

Leon step into the glade cautiously, followed closely by the other knights, Gwen, and Sophia Silverblood. Each looked as forlorn and despondent as he.

"Are you all right, my lord?"

The king shook his head slowly.

"He came here to die," he declared impassively. "It was why he left in the night, why he left four days ago, alone. He was searching for a place to die." Looking back down at his servant, Arthur realized that Merlin was looking back.

"Take...the Heart," he rasped imploringly. "Please."

Arthur frowned for a moment. Upon realizing what he meant, he glanced at the ground, then away into the brightening woods. "I cannot."

"Please...I beg you."

Now he looked back at his servant, studying the pallid flesh, the poisoned veins, the beseeching eyes. The cold but true words of Gabriela, the Druid shaman, echoed in the king's head.

_He did it all for you, my lord. He had his chance. We all mourn his failure, but do not insult his attempts to save you. _

_To save you, not as a king, not as a master, but as a friend._

Arthur could not hold Merlin's gaze any longer. He stared at the ground again, pinching the ridge between his eyes.

"I can't do this."

"You must—"

"I cannot condemn you!" Arthur snapped, glaring at him. "It's my fault you got into this shit. It's my place to get you out."

Merlin shook his head slowly. "You have...all of Camelot to consider. What is a servant...compared to a king?"

"Everything." Arthur squared his shoulders, ignoring all but his friend. "I have never known a man who would go through so much for another when the risks of losing himself were so great."

Gwaine cleared his throat with mock indignation, but no one paid him any heed.

"I cannot save myself when I know that it would only result in the braver man dying for it. You are a brave man, Merlin. The jests, the taunting...it was all a lie. And...I cannot lose you."

Merlin looked to be having difficulties focusing. Even as his eyes began to droop shut, however, he smiled shakily. "That is about...the nicest thing you've ever said to me." He shuddered, sweat glistening on his features.

"Hey," said the king, shaking him. "Stay awake."

"Arthur, I..." Merlin's breath trembled. "I'm dying."

He scowled. "No, you aren't, clotpole." But he knew it was a lie from the denial to the insult. Merlin looked worse by tenfold than he did when they found him but hours ago. He was indeed dying.

_But not from his wounds, nor from exhaustion. From the silver in his veins._

"Merlin..."

The servant could not reply. His fevered shudders were becoming rough jerks, his face creasing in pain. Arthur felt an ache in his chest, and he could hear Gwen weeping softly.

"You'll be all right, Merlin. You'll—"

Arthur flinched as the servant coughed up bile, watery black bile that dribbled from between flat, ashen lips. He couldn't even lift a hand to wipe it from his cheeks, and instead he just lay there, shivering, grunting softly as he struggled to breathe. The king's head fell into his hands in despair.

"My lord."

Arthur spared a glance at Sophia, whose face was as grim as the reaper's.

"He is suffering, my lord."

The king turned quickly away, but the damage was done. The Silverblood's few words had already strummed a dark cord in Arthur's mind, and yet another memory flashed vividly before his eyes.

He had been hunting with a party of about twelve, each with a dog to sniff out prey. And sniff it out they did.

With wild bays and blood-thirsty snarls, the hounds had picked up the scent of a bear. They pursued it relentlessly, followed closely by Arthur's companions. But the king, a prince at the time, stopped where the bear's trail had been discovered, staring at something on the ground.

A wolf, its back twisted the wrong way, lay on its side in the mud. It must have been struck by the bear and left for dead. Arthur had knelt to investigate the creature, and was shocked to see it still alive. One brown-emerald eye stared at him furiously, its lips curled up in a soundless snarl, showing defiance to the face of death.

Its wounds would not have let it live. But they would not have been enough to kill it in a matter of moments either. Arthur had taken his dagger and thrust it into its chest, into its heart. Only then did it die, a final snort of air escaping its nostrils. The sound of its soul departing.

He had freed it from its pain.

_Why would I remember that?_ he now thought to himself, snapping back to the present. _I couldn't possibly...There's no way...I don't care if he's suffering_...

Gwen was sobbing now. Elyan put an arm around her to comfort her. Each of the knights could only look at their fallen friend for a second before dropping their gaze. Sophia was watching the king hard, emotionless, passionless. Her knife was in her hand.

"My lord," she said, and that was it.

_He had his chance._

_He is suffering_.

There was a rushing in Arthur's ears.

"NO!" he roared, and Sophia flinched. "I WILL _NOT—_KILL HIM!"

His chest heaved angrily for air as he glowered at the Silverblood, and at his companions.

"For all his has done...I cannot kill him like a dog just because _you've_ given up on him!"

"Arthur, we haven't—"

"Then give him the Heart," Arthur snapped at Gwen, who silenced immediately. "Give it to him. Immunize him to silver."

"We can't _do_ that, sire," said Leon, stepping forward. "You are the king. Merlin wants you to take it. Why won't you honour his wishes and his sacrifice?"

"Would you do it, Leon?" Arthur demanded, standing, glaring a challenge at him. "If you were in my place, would you condemn him to save yourself?"

He saw the knight's eyes flicker to Merlin, so brief it outpaced a hummingbird's wing beat. It was then that Arthur knew he was going to lie.

"If it was for the good of the kingdom, then yes, I would."

Arthur nearly exploded. His own faithful knights lying to him, right to his face! He trembled with fury, gritting his teeth, muscles taunt. But then Merlin made a sound.

It was so minute, a passing breeze of a whisper, but in the silence of the forest, his one word was heard.

"Larentia."

Arthur turned to where the servant had lifted a hand, seeming to reach for something in the distance. His eyes widened slightly at what he saw.

Stepping through the trees, drawing ever nearer, was a magnificent male stag. It watched them with cool, intelligent, fearless disregard, both ears flared, antlers held up high and proud.

A wind picked up then, cool and refreshing, carrying upon it the tantalizing scent of pine sap and fresh loam. Arthur inhaled deeply, feeling for the first time in days a comely sense of peace. The beast within him submitted docilely, a harmless pup.

"In all my journeys, never have I Seen..." Sophia breathed softly.

Arthur couldn't See as a Silverblood Sees, but he could only imagine that it must be something wonderful. This was no ordinary beast, just as this was no ordinary glade.

"What do you want?" he asked it, but other than a casual tail flick, it didn't move.

Then Arthur jumped a league as the stag's neck suddenly stretched forward, and it opened is mouth to emit a bellowing moan. It was low, guttural, and echoed about the forest eerily. It sent shivers down his spine even after the coarse keen faded into silence.

Arthur felt the werewolf stir restlessly, perturbed by the sound. He felt its instincts swell, urging him to flee the glade. Something was not right!

But Arthur also felt his own instincts, and they commanded that he stay. Something was telling him that this, _this_ was where he needed to be. And if they disagreed with the beast blood, then by God he would listen to them.

"I...I understand," said the king.

The stag shook itself, from proud head to tail, then turned to walk away. As soon as its gaze left him, Arthur felt a surge inside him. The werewolf knew his thoughts, and was readying itself to break free. But before it did, he had to finish it. Finish it for good.

"Gwen, bring the Heart to me," Arthur ordered calmly. The queen came hesitantly forward, opening the bag in her arms. The gleam of the Silver Heart was alluring, yet Arthur tore his gaze away and crouched beside Merlin.

"Wake up, please, just for a moment," he said softly. And for a frightful moment, he thought he was too late, but then the servant slowly opened his hazy eyes, staring right at the king.

"She was here," he whispered coarsely. His body jerked painfully. "D-did you feel her?"

"Yes," said the king, nodding, though he didn't know who Merlin was talking about. "I did. Now I need you to stay awake for me, all right?"

"So tired..."

"You can sleep in a little while, I promise. Right now, you must stay awake. Stay awake for me, please?"

He beckoned Gwen closer. "You understand, too, right?" he asked her, and she nodded briskly. He nodded back. "We must be quick." He took one of Merlin's hands and prepared his other.

_I hope this works_, he thought, as Gwen pressed the Silver Heart into both of their grasps.

At first, there was nothing. A jolt of alarm unsettled Arthur as he stared at the Heart, then at Merlin, then at Gwen. One hand clasped the silver wolf figurine tighter while the other pressed the servant's palm against it until he knew it must hurt.

Then he felt a swell of heat. His whole body jerked as warm tendrils whipped from the Heart, through his palms and up his arm. By the way Merlin reacted, he must be feeling the same thing.

_It's working, it's working!_

The werewolf within him snarled in outright fury, slashing at its restraints like it had never before. Arthur felt his will become not his own, felt the urge to fling the Heart away.

The beast was going to break free. It was going to take control.

Vaguely, Arthur noticed that he was losing his grip on the Heart. He knew that, if he was to drop it, all would be lost. But he could do nothing as his body seized, limbs locking, relinquishing full control to the beast. His muscles screamed and his back flamed, the agony so intense he could not scream.

Vaguely, he heard his companions yell his name, but it was as though they were at the furthest edge of the kingdom, their aid as fruitless as their cries.

_Hold on!_ Arthur bellowed at himself, but he could not. Even through tear-blurred eyes, he saw the Heart slipping from his fingers, which in turn would be out of Merlin's grasp as well.

"N-no!"

Then, warm hands cupped his own. Soft, brown, loving.

Gwenevere had crouched beside them and was holding his palms against the Heart, his and Merlin's. Arthur looked into her eyes, saw the strong determination, the cool dedication, the unwavering compassion. He saw the woman he'd fallen in love with, not only for her beauty but for her unfaltering strength no other woman could match, let alone outpace.

"This is your heart," she whispered, and somehow, through the roaring in his ears, Arthur heard her. "This is your heart, here." She pressed a hand against his chest, and through the supple wool and linen, he felt her warm touch. He pushed against her, wanting her, desperate for her comfort.

The beast, however, feared it. It reared angrily and fought to pull Arthur's spirit back into its chains, to swallow him into itself. To take him, soul and body, and make them its own. Arthur felt himself wavering, and tried to retreat into his mind. The wolf howled in triumph, nipping at him, clawing at him, relishing its chance at last to break free for good and forever—

Then Gwen kissed him.

Arthur's heart soared. Not the beast's. His. And with it grew his willpower.

The wolf yelped and fawned beneath him, and he was merciless as he drove it from his heart like a shepherd would from his pastures. He wasn't alone of course, and it wasn't Gwen who was helping him. There was something else, something he couldn't explain, not even with a thousand words. It wasn't magic, exactly, but something else entirely. Something ancient. And it gave him a power no man should ever possess.

_Out!_ he screamed. _GET OUT!_

The beast fled.

* * *

He opened his eyes, not having realized that he had closed them. He was kneeling over Merlin, whose own warring body was seized in agony, but Gwen was at his side, holding his hand, touching his heart. And his knights were around him, their strength giving him strength as steadfast as Camelot's very walls.

For some reason, Arthur was seeing a lot of red. He couldn't really focus on the observation, for it was then that Merlin opened his eyes, the keen, thunder-blue gaze free of the burden that had plagued them for what seemed like ages, that Arthur felt the werewolf abandon him entirely. It was agonizing.

All at once, old, Healed wounds tore at his body. The werewolf bite in his side. The mauling he'd suffered from Rowan. The cuts from the blades of a Silverblood assassin. All demanded a piece of him, and he was at their mercy. Yet he could not scream. And when he fell, crashing onto his side, he finally saw the beast with his own eyes.

It was wispy, like a ghostly wraith devoid of a solid shape, and made out of white flames. It writhed, floating just above the ground, but when it saw where it was, it snarled and turned towards the king. Its eyes were silvery-white and burning with such vengeful hatred that Arthur felt terror, a pure, animal terror that urged him to leap up and flee. The beast pounced, jaws gaped.

A familiar, low-bellied keen signified that the stag had returned.

There were several cries of alarm as the magnificent creature charged into the glade, head down, majestic antlers lowered at the wolf spirit. The beast quailed but could do nothing as the stag bounded over Arthur and impaled it, driving it into the ground. It snarled and yelped, but it was helpless to save itself. When it died, it slumped feebly, then faded like the mist into the earth.

Arthur stared, aghast, as the groaning stag straightened and bucked in anger, like a horse riled with livid adrenaline. Its ears were flat and its tail flared, and it lurched around with unsuppressed energy.

But it was not over. Arthur's beast was dead. Merlin's was just emerging.

The spirit, exactly like the king's had been, burst free of the servant like a departing soul. But it did not waste time cringing in pain, and instead immediately turned on the first living thing it saw – the stag.

"Larentia!" someone screamed, and Arthur realized that it was Sophia Silverblood just as she threw her silver dagger. It spun, end over end, to bury itself into the throat of the wolf spirit.

The creature vanished into a whiff of smoke, the blade thudding into a tree beyond and staying there, quivering.

Like the animal it was, the stag bolted, fleeing as though it had never had the courage to fight in the first place. It was now, as it should be, just a regular stag.

Then, a heavy, unsettling quiet that even the birds dared not shatter.

"That was really weird," said Gwaine in the silence, just as Arthur passed out.

* * *

**Yes. Weird sums it up very well.**

"**This thing...man...whatever it is, evil may have created it, left its mark on it but evil does not rule it. So I cannot kill it." ~ Van Helsing**


	39. The Passing of a Legend

**Why is it, that whenever I start a new story, it's thousands of words longer than the last one? o_O I've got one more Merlin fic after this, which is already so much longer, and not even _close_ to being done! ARG! Anyone else have this...problem? XD**

**Anyway, if you'd like to read it, it will be called No Shadows. Unless of course you're so damn sick of me that you just want to strangle me and throw my PC into the river and stitch my fingers together and slap duct tape over my mouth because I'm talking too much *heaves in breath* but if you do that then I'll never get to have wonton soup ever again and you'll have some angry Ranger's Apprentice fans coming after you because I wouldn't be able to finish the fic for that fandom and...and...**

**F*** it -,- Here's the chapter.**

* * *

~39~ The Passing of a Legend

"Arthur?"

Someone was shaking him, somehow being urgent and gentle at the same time. The king groaned and rolled over. His bed seemed harder than normal, and smelly, like a forest floor.

"Mmm, go_'way_, Merlin. Five more minutes."

He heard a barely stifled snigger and fumed. It was a Gwaine snigger. He forced his eyes open, and for a long, befuddling moment, he stared at the dank ground he seemed to be sleeping on. There was something soft under his head, but otherwise he was not very comfortable.

He blinked slowly, then saw a shape moving towards him from the corner of his vision and flinched.

"Shh, it's all right. It's just me."

Arthur turned his eyes to see the relief in Gwen's, and he smiled as she did. He reached up to stroke her face...only to realize that his arms were too heavy.

"Just me," she said. There was a damp cloth in her hand, which was what had caught Arthur's peripherals in the first place, and she was using it to wipe his face.

"Did you see it?" he asked, his voice raspy. Gwen only frowned in question, hesitating in her cleaning. "The stag...it destroyed the werewolf..."

The queen shook her head, still looking puzzled. "I saw the stag, but...there was no werewolf, Arthur."

"But...but there was a ghostly wolf..." Did they not see it? How could they not have?

The king tried to sit up, but every bone in his body felt like a thousand pounds. He grunted, forcing one hand up to feel his face. It was covered in sweat, and blood.

Blood?

He pulled his hand away and stared in confusion at the gore. It was all over his face, running down his cheeks and jawline. It was even under his eyes, as though he had been crying the red substance in sorrow.

Gwen shook her head, breath shuddering slightly. She wrung the now stained cloth between her hands. "I thought you were dying, Arthur," she whispered. "When you fell, you started to bleed and...Oh, it was so horrible."

Arthur remembered the agony, the unspeakable pain he felt as the beast blood was burned from his body by the Silver Heart. Now that it was gone, though...

"Help me up," he said, and he felt two people take either of his arms and pull him to a sitting position. His head swam, his surroundings swirling like ink in roiling water, but he took several deep breaths and closed his eyes until the world stopped spinning. He realized that they were all still in the glade where he'd killed the unicorn years ago. The Wild, Merlin called it. A pocket of land that had never seen destruction or disease. Just pure wilderness.

"Is it...Is it really gone?" a distant voice asked, and Arthur recognized it as Elyan's.

"Yes," said Sophia Silverblood gently. "I can no longer See the beast, in either of them. They are free."

Arthur didn't need the Eye to know that. It was gone, like a sickness that had been there so long it had felt a part of him.

He felt so happy, he wanted to laugh. But instead, he retained a dignified, kingly composure. "I didn't think that would work."

"Damn lucky it did, mate," said Gwaine loftily. "I feared things had made a turn for the worst, when _she_ started throwing daggers at trees and mad stags began stamping around like their tails were on fire." He grinned, but there was an edge to his joviality that Arthur didn't like.

"Gwaine," he said slowly, cautiously. He could not see him from where he sat. "Where's Merlin?"

Gwenevere began to clean his face with the cloth again, but the king pulled gently away.

"He's alive, Arthur," said Leon, who was standing to the side, unsure. "The silver no longer has any affect on him." He said nothing more, but the pocket of unspoken explanations loomed over the king like a monstrous leviathan.

He vaguely felt Gwen once more attempt to wipe the drying blood from his face, the caked gore pulling at his skin as he sat there, numb. Sitting as he was, weakened as he was, he felt what strength he had waning. But that just made him all the more determined to get up. So, groaning, he rolled to his hands and knees, then began to stand. Gwen's warm hands grasped at his arms, his shoulders, anywhere in her attempts to aid him. He let her, yet the knights kept a respectful distance.

Arthur swayed, and he kept his vision on the ground in an attempt to smother his dizziness. Once he regained control, however, he sought his fallen friend and servant. It didn't take long.

Gwaine had moved Merlin so that he rested comfortably against a tree, and now knelt beside him, trying in vain to clean off the blood that had oozed from the servant's nose, mouth, ears and eyes. Sophia Silverblood was on his other side, staring at him silently, helplessly, but she backed away as Arthur approached, giving him room.

He knelt, keeping impassive as he took in Merlin's withered form. He was no longer grey from silver poison, but he still trembled with fever and pain, occasional jerks disturbing his already fitful sleep.

He looked so small, lying there all helpless. Arthur felt a foul lump form in his throat and could not swallow it.

"How long as he been asleep?" he asked.

"Ages!" Gwaine exclaimed. "We haven't eaten for—"

Percival rolled his eyes. "Less than half an hour, sire. Gwaine's just delusional from a lack of breakfast."

The other knight glowered at him. "A man can't function without his nibbles, mate."

"With the stomach you're growing, Gwaine, I think you can go a few mornings without nibbles."

Everyone blinked in astonishment. Merlin was stirring, a small smile donning his lips as he looked sleepily at Gwaine. The knight turned baleful eyes on him.

"Oh, my best mate has forsaken me and my famished belly! Such cruel cruel fates—"

Arthur looked affronted. "I thought _I_ was your best mate."

Gwaine glanced from king to servant and back again, sizing them up. Then he shook his head, a smile dancing behind his eyes. "Nah. Merlin is." Then he patted his stomach. "Or at least I _thought_ he was!"

Arthur nodded, empathetic. "Aye, Merlin does have a tendency to call his superiors fat."

The servant now looked witheringly at him. "I never called you fat. I was just inferring that you were getting...husky."

"_Husky?_"

Merlin grinned, but that grin contorted into a grimace as he moved. He gasped, what little colour there was in his face draining in an instant. A hand moved to his side, where he had more than one broken rib. He was trying to breathe evenly but the pain was not letting him.

"Aw, ow," he gasped.

It was as though he was becoming truly aware of his wounds for the first time. The instincts of the werewolf gone, he had nothing to urge him to ignore his injuries.

"He won't last long like this," said Sophia. "We need to get him back to the Druids. Help me make a stretcher."

Arthur prepared to stand to do just that, but then Merlin's hand reached up to grasp his, keeping him grounded. The others moved away to find deadfall.

"Did...did it work?" he asked meekly, the pain taxing him. "Is it gone?"

Arthur nodded, genuine grief etched into his features as he remained crouched by his friend.

"It is," he said, "thanks to you. But how did you know?"

Merlin shook his head. "I didn't. Larentia showed me this place in my dreams."

"In...your _dreams?_ You listened to _dreams?_"

Now the servant's brow creased shrewdly. "You didn't need to follow me."

"No, I didn't."

"And yet you did."

Arthur sighed, rubbing his eyes with one hand and then pinching the bridge of his nose. Merlin was still staring at him.

"Why, Arthur? Why did you follow me?"

Another sigh. "I meant everything I said earlier. I can't let a brave man die for me, not like this. And you're my fr—servant. A half-decent servant is hard to come by these days."

Merlin scowled. "You've used that excuse too many times."

"And if you were any worse, it would be invalid."

"I love you, too, Arthur."

"Shut up, dollop-head."

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

Not for the first time, the companions wished they had dragged the horses with them deeper into the Forest of Agmar. As it was, they each took turns carrying one end of the stretcher bearing their fallen friend. At first, Merlin expressed his uncomfortable attention, but soon his wounds were too much for him, and fell still. Even though most of the damage had been cauterized, preventing bleeding and infection, it had done nothing for internal injury.

He fell into a deep fever, from which he refused to pull himself out of. Sweat beaded his face and soaked his shirt around the neck and beneath the arms. His hair was matted into thick, dark strands on his forehead, and his face never once bespoke of peace. Gwen did what she could to dampen the fever, but she wasn't as skilled as Gaius or the Druids.

They descended into and ascended from the gorge, and continued until they passed the statue of the Archon, Nocturn. The hooded figure, black hands clasped, the owl on his shoulder as immobile as ever, seemed to regard the wearied travellers with an air of expectation.

Arthur, currently at the rearguard, was the only one to notice Sophia Silverblood stop and curtsy low to Nocturn's monument. He recalled her explaining that the Archon was the one responsible for the creation of the unicorns. He also recalled that Merlin had told him to find Anhora the night before. Perhaps he didn't mean for him to find the Keeper of the Unicorns directly. And then the servant unwittingly led Arthur to the glade, the glade where they had found a unicorn years ago, which he called the Wild.

What did all these connections mean? That the company was helped by a fabled Archon? But that's ridiculous!

_Was the cure the Silver Heart blessed us with ridiculous?_ he asked himself. Then he realized that Sophia had straightened and was walking towards him. He barely saw her as she kept going, rejoining their companions.

Arthur, however, stayed a little bit longer, studying Nocturn intently for...for what? For life?

He wasn't much of a believer of gods, having never seen one nor witnessed their wonders. He didn't know how the world came to being and, frankly, never gave it much thought. And by the way they're described, Archons seemed little more realistic than gods...But after all that's happened...

Impulsively, to his own surprise, the king bowed, falling to one knee and lowering his head. For several moments he remained there, until the dank loam beneath his knee soaked into his trousers. Only then did he stand, glancing once more at the statue before turning and following his knights.

What did it hurt to show a little respect, after all?

* * *

It had taken them little over a day to find Merlin on horseback. Now bearing him injured in a stretcher, on foot, it took three times longer.

"I guess we should have brought this into consideration," Gwaine grunted, relieving Elyan of the stretcher for his turn. "Bringing a Druid _with_ us would have been novel."

Arthur didn't like the thought of having a magic user travelling with them, even though the Druids had already expressed their benevolent values. It just...unsettled him too much.

On the third day, Mistwood was at their feet. And the Druids were there to welcome them.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

"This would not have been possible without the aid of you or your people," stated Arthur, bowing his head to the Druids Bowen and Gabriela. "Camelot owes you all a great debt."

"It was an honour, Arthur Pendragon," said Bowen, also bowing.

"Is there any way we can repay you?" asked the king, glancing from one impassive figure to the other. Gabriela smiled then.

"Your expressed gratitude is payment enough, good king," she said. "Though, perhaps, there is one thing..."

"Anything," Arthur pressed.

Gabriela regarded him with a level stare. "When you sign a decree on the grounds of magic, remember us. When you sentence a convicted sorcerer to death, remember what we did for you. And, perhaps, you will not look to such morbid means to deal with issues you do not properly understand."

Arthur just blinked as the two Druids then turned and walked away, joining their folk in the daily hubbub of Mistwood.

He heard someone snort behind him, a heavy hand falling on his shoulder a moment later.

"I would have gone for power and riches," said Gwaine casually, staring off after the Druids as though they were insane. "And maybe mead. A whole barrel, just for me!"

Arthur felt his eyebrows lift, but he could not help but give a soft smile. "Only you, Gwaine. Only you." He left the knight then, left him looking slightly puzzled, and made his way to the Healers' tent.

Merlin was fast asleep when Arthur ducked into the pavilion, as was to be expected, of course. The servant had been through quite an ordeal, and the Healing magic the Druids had woven into him was extensive. Not only externally, but internally. It was after they had done all they could that they told the king that Merlin had indeed cauterized his own wounds days ago. They had to reopen his shoulder to retrieve the silver shard, the remains of a Blackhand spear, from his flesh.

Arthur sat on a stood by his servant's bedside and looked at that shard now, laying on a simple table near a small clay vase of flowers. It was almost as long as his finger, and had the width of his thumb. Hesitantly, the king reached to pick it up, cautious that it would burn him like silver used to. But it did not. As it sat in his hand, he noticed that a small hole had been drilled into one end, and now there was a tiny loop of string and a woven thong attached to it. Someone had made it into a necklace.

"Do you think he'll like it?"

Arthur stood and turned, to see Gwen enter the tent with a small smile.

"Did you do this?" he asked, sounding surprised when really, he wasn't. He held it up, watching it flash in a ray of sun gleaming in through the tent window. "I think he'll love it."

"I dulled the edges a bit, so they no longer cut," she said, sounding somewhat distracted as she stared down at Merlin.

Arthur set the necklace back down on the table and took her hand.

"I...guess I never told you earlier," he began, and Gwen looked to him curiously. "You showed great courage in the glade. If you weren't there..." He shook his head. "I fear I would have been lost."

Gwen simply gave another small smile and pushed into his arms, embracing his chest. He lowered his head onto hers, inhaling the homely scent of her dark hair, and for several minutes, they remained there, undisturbed, reassured by each others' presence.

"I still don't know if I understand," said Gwen finally. "Why the glade in the Forest of Agmar? What was so important about it?"

Arthur sighed, an answer slow in the coming. "You recall that that was the glade in which I slew a unicorn six years ago? The creature was there because it was, as Merlin called it, the Wild. He said that it was a place that has never seen destruction or disease." He frowned. "I suppose killing something there didn't count as destruction. Or because we somehow resurrected the unicorn later, it was fine."

"But how is such a thing possible? How can a place never see destruction or disease?"

Arthur shrugged, finally releasing his queen. "Magical barriers? I don't know. Probably has something to do with Nocturn, the Archon..."

Gwen looked down at Merlin. "Still the question remains, why there?"

"Because that was where the beast blood would be most exposed, without bursting free entirely."

The king and queen of Camelot both turned at Gabriela's voice, the shaman having soundlessly ducked into the tent. Arthur frowned curiously.

"What do you mean, 'most exposed?'"

"Did it not feel like the beast was going to break free at any moment when you were there?" asked the shaman. "The instincts of the werewolf would have peaked in such a place. From my understanding, that is. And that is why Larentia, or, possibly, Nocturn, gave Merlin the visions of the glade in his dreams. Though he knew it not, he was sent there to be cured, not to die like he thought. And you were supposed to follow him, with the Silver Heart."

"So...had we not been there, curing us both would not have worked?" said Arthur, just managing to stop himself from swallowing audibly. Gabriela nodded.

"Where the werewolves were strongest they were also at their weakest. They longed to detach themselves from you and be their own creatures. Or else take over you entirely."

Gwen shook her head. "There was so much blood," she whispered coarsely, pale at the memory. Gabriela nodded again, looking at Arthur.

"It was the Silver Heart separating your blood from the beast's, and pushing the taint from your body. Had you and Merlin both held the Heart while anywhere else but a pocket of Wilderness, somewhere that the bloods were closely mingled, you would have bled to death."

Arthur's eyebrow rose. "Okay. Good to know."

* * *

**So I hope that explained some of the more supernatural stuff that was going on. Make it a little less weird...or not... **

**Holy crackers. Only one more chapter to go D8**

"**Nothing's ever for sure, John. That's the only sure thing I do know." ~ Charles (It's a Beautiful Mind)**


	40. Silverheart

******As of March 10/13 ~ Favs: 41; Alerts: 74; Reviews: 69**

**Why, great balls of flaming hot chili peppers. The story is actually done. Huh, and I can legitimately say, I'm relieved to see the back end of it. In fact, I'm gonna give that back end a little parting kick of farewell! *boots***

**Ignoring the fact that I can't help but feel the utmost disappointment for this story, I can be proud in that I didn't just throw it away. Of course, that's because of me mateys who clung on like baby monkeys in support ;) I'm surprised how many held faith, but I'm pretty sure I disappointed many of you and for that, I'm sorry. Maybe I will re-write this someday, because I've been receiving a slight trickle of inspiration lately...Oh lord...here they come...****_Plot bunnies!_**** NO! Stay away, you fell beasties! AHG! *********drowns in the swarm of warm fluffy bunny-ness*******

**...How's this. Review and tell me if it's worth rewriting. I've got ****_way_**** better ideas forming already (those bunnies are influential things), and in fact have already begun. It won't be as farfetched or supernatural, and things will be tied closer together. Unfortunately, it will stall No Shadows by months, but oh well.**

**Anyway, do us all a favour, and do NOT share this with anyone. If it's even something you do with stories you've read, DON'T. Just let it fade into the deepest depths of fanfiction history and ebb away with the tides of time, to be forgotten...for the sake of my reputation...**

**One last quote for you lovelies, one last chapter, and one last thank you :) ****_Grazie,_**** my friends, ****_mille grazie_****.**

"**You know, the problem with being the last of anything, by and by there be none left at all." ~ Barbossa (Pirates of the Caribbean)**

* * *

~40~ Silverheart

It look Merlin over two days to drag himself from the warm coves of sleep...Well, more accurately, it was Arthur who took over two days to finally lose his patience and shake him awake.

"_Nooo_," Merlin groaned, rolling over and tugging his blankets closer around him. "Good dream. Go away—"

"Get out of bed, lazy bones." The king tried to grab him and pull him off, but Merlin began to squirm, desperately latching onto the opposite end of the cot like a limpet.

"No!"

"Come on!"

"_No!_"

After several moments of intense conflict, Arthur finally managed to wrestle the servant's grip free and drag him from the cot in a tangle of sheets. Merlin hit the floor with a _thud_ and the king straightened, brushing his hands together as he left him on the ground.

"_Revenge_," he purred triumphantly, walking away.

On the floor, Merlin grumbled.

* * *

"Emrys, I must speak with you before you depart."

Merlin split from his companions, who were finishing the last of the preparations for their return journey to Camelot. He walked with Gabriela until they had reasonable distance for secrecy.

"There is the manner in which you are to fulfil your promises to Hecate, the priestess of the Ancient Kingdom," said the shaman lowly, holding up the Silver Heart in her hands.

Merlin nodded. On the day he had been cured the first time, he had promised Hecate that he would destroy the Heart once the werewolves were finally vanquished. It was a powerful vessel, after all, one that could penetrate the barriers between his world and that of the dormant Archons.

"There is a problem," said the warlock softly. Gabriela waited expectantly for him to elaborate. "Arthur and I are cured. Rowan will soon be dealt with. But Hecate took my curse into herself. In order for me to keep my promise..." He trailed of uncomfortably.

"That is why I needed to speak with you," said Gabriela. "A few days ago, the corpse of a white werewolf was discovered."

Merlin looked to her in shock. "Hecate?"

The shaman nodded wistfully. "I could See that it was her. But do not despair, Emrys. She was old. And, in the end, she got what she wanted. She shall forever be with her mistress, Larentia." Gabriela pressed the Silver Heart into Merlin's hands. "Don't take any unnecessary risks. Rowan must die, I am sad to say, but do not make it an honourable death if it risks the lives of any more people." She nodded at the Heart. "After he is gone, the vessel will be weak. A few good spells should deal with it. Or perhaps something even more simple." With that, she turned to leave.

"Wait!" Merlin held out a hand as though to grab her shoulder. She hesitated. "Thank you," he finally managed. "For everything."

Gabriela simply smiled. "Goodbye, Emrys. It has been a pleasure and an honour." With that, she was gone.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

"And so rises the quandary – what we are to do with the remains of the Silverblood Order."

Arthur stood tall at the vast, circular table, the seats of which were occupied by the renowned knights of Camelot. Every man there, stone faced, regarded their king avidly, respectfully. Arthur scanned each subject in turn, but lingering on his closest companions just a little bit longer.

"Their leader, Baldwin Silverblood, had proven to be...a loose stallion, as it were. Unpredictable, fickle, dangerous. But in the end, he was seen as an enemy of Camelot. He should have been here today to face justice, but alas, he is not. In our endeavours to seek and slay the beasts that had slaughtered so many innocents within our walls, he and his lieutenant fell to the Blackhands' beast. It was by great fortune that everyone else escaped alive."

The knights nodded in agreement as Arthur regarded them, still expressionless. Yes, yes, it was a lie, but it was a white lie, woven to protect what needed to be protected. That was to say, all of Camelot. Arthur thought he relayed it rather well.

"We cannot ignore Baldwin's crimes, but nor can we ignore Sophia Silverblood's invaluable aid. Without her, we may all have fallen to the beasts. We all owe her a debt of gratitude, a debt that cannot be respected if we were to execute the rest of her kin. I'm sure she would agree had she been here today."

The problem had been nagging Arthur for several days, ever since he remembered the remaining thirty or so Silverbloods that remained in the tower dungeons. They'd followed a rather shady leader, true, but that wasn't to say that any of them would have done the same as him, had they the opportunity. Sophia was one such example, as was Bianca, the woman whom Gwaine had saved – in turn, she had shed light on a lot of dark secrets.

Sophia wasn't there today simply because she had chosen not to. Upon the departure from Mistwood two days before, the Silverblood had approached the king and announced that she had decided to remain with the Druids.

"I have nothing to lose," she'd declared, "leaving them. Not really. I've always been sort of...different. I think I'll stay here, with Gabriela. Their pacifist ways may soon drive me mad, but then again, maybe not." She bowed to Arthur then, and said, when she'd straightened, "Live well, my lord. Should you ever need me, you know where I will be."

Arthur startled himself from memory lane as Leon stood.

"Then why do we not simply banish them, my lord? This is not their homeland, and I'm sure they would appreciate simply departing these shores with their lives and dignities intact."

Arthur, as rehearsed, nodded in approval. "That is a good suggestion, Sir Leon. There is no efficient way that we can figure whether any of them would have blindly followed Baldwin until the world came down around them, not anymore. With the passing of the werewolves, there is nothing left for them here."

"But, my lord," said Sir Ryan, a weasel-faced man whose prowess with the sword was greatly respected. "Is there not the Blackhand beast still out there? You say two of them are dead, but what of the third? Should we not pursue it?"

Arthur let his glace flicker up to Merlin, standing to the side, who remained skillfully impassive at the knight's question.

"Thanks to a few new allies, I have complete confidence that the beast has been dealt with," said the king. "You can be reassured that there are no more werewolves in Albion. Now, there is the manner as to how we are to help the families who lost loved ones to the beasts..."

* * *

Merlin witnessed the meeting of the Knights of the Round Table without really witnessing anything at all. His thoughts were too far gone, running over the memories of the past few days in his head.

He'd woken up in Mistwood, his wounds Healed to the best of the Druids' abilities, his heart flying with the knowledge that it was no longer burdened with the beast blood. His shoulder, the one that had been ravaged by Arthur, was still stiffer than normal and was unsightly with scars, not to mention the wound from the shard of silver that had been in his flesh for days still ached and revealed where it had entered his body.

Unconsciously, he reached up and felt the new necklace about his throat, the one made for him by Gwen. His own little piece of silver, always resting by his heart.

He never gave it much thought, how he'd been injured in the first place. He thought it might have been Baldwin, seeing as the man had bayed for his blood until the day he was torn to shreds by Rowan. But a Blackhand may have been just as responsible.

The warlock shook his head and stared off into the corner of the throne room. It mattered little, now. The Druids, when they found the Silver Heart, had also discovered the remains of Baldwin Silverblood and the Blackhand cult master in the woods. Personally, Merlin was relieved that Rowan had done all the messy work for them.

Vaguely, he heard Sir Ryan speak of the Blackhand beast still roaming Camelot's forests. At this, Merlin looked to his king, to see how he would answer. He wasn't surprised to see Arthur staring right back.

"Thanks to a few new allies," said the king, "I have complete confidence that the beast has been dealt with. You can be reassured that there are no more werewolves in Albion. Now..."

Merlin smiled, once more shutting off the meeting from his hearing. Dealt with, indeed. Through what Arthur said was true, he didn't know all of the..._details_. Rowan won't ever be a problem again...

* * *

_Kilgharrah relished the sensation of wind beneath his wings as he soared high above the southwestern edge of the Darkling Woods, the sea of greens and ribbons of blue stretching on forever in every direction. If he flew but a hundred metres higher, he may yet see the ocean, but then he wouldn't be able to find his prey hunting in the trees below._

_The Great Dragon had been watching one road in particular for hours, as it was where Rowan had been spotted last, according to Merlin. Spotted eating a small party of travellers._

_As the sun descended to its bed in the eternal west, Kilgharrah slid onto a warm wind thermal and floated, letting the elements do all the work while he kept an eye on the ground. With a pang of forlornness, he noticed that his gaze wasn't as sharp as it used to be..._

_Wait, what was that?_

_The dragon blinked, snapping out of a trance he didn't know he'd fallen into as he gazed down at the road._

_But he was disappointed. It was just a youth with a herd of goats making his way home for the night. Kilgharrah snorted smoke and made his rounds, flying east along the road and then west again as stars began to reveal themselves in the heavens. Twice he flew over the shepherd boy, who seemed to be dragging his feet._

His mother's probably worried sick for him...Maybe I should give him some...encouragement_, Kilgharrah thought with an amused dragon-grin. He actually felt his wings begin to fold to do just that when another movement caught his eye, something shifting at the edge of the trees below._

_The shepherd boy detected nothing at first, but he looked around when all of his goats began to bleat in terror, the sounds reaching Kilgharrah's keen ears above. Then the boy saw Rowan bounding towards him, and fled. He wouldn't stand a chance._

Here we go_, Kilgharrah declared inwardly. He folded his wings and plunged._

_The ground rushed towards him, and the Great Dragon roared a challenge at the puny werewolf below. For a moment, the beast cringed, halting in its pursuit of the shepherd boy, but then it howled in defiance and tore at the earth veraciously._

Stupid beast_, Kilgharrah thought flatly just before he flared his wings and landed on it._

_The resounding crash that succeeded the action knocked the shepherd boy from his feet, and he fawned on the ground as the dragon turned to look at him, notably wiping one massive paw on the grass to clean himself._

"_Well, that takes care of that!" Kilgharrah boomed, before lifting into the air and soaring away on the wind._

* * *

As the meeting of the Knights of the Round Table finally drew to a close, Arthur gave no indication that he wanted Merlin to follow him, and, relieved, the servant made his own way out of the throne room.

Almost mechanically, he detoured to his chambers and then drifted to the western battlements, now holding something in a satchel.

It was almost completely dark, now, the sun having set and most of the light pulsing from the city. Merlin placed himself equally between the torches that were braced on the crenellations at regular intervals, giving him the most furthest range of sight as he could. Had he been closer to either torch, his long-distance would have been hindered by the light.

"A nice night."

Merlin turned to see Gaius approaching, a small smile on his aged face. The warlock grinned in return.

"One of many I hope I get to enjoy, now that..." He gestured wordlessly with his arm. "It's all over."

"And much neater than I had come to expect," said Gaius, placing one hand on the battlements and looking over the city.

For a minute, there was silence. Then Merlin asked him, "So the people really believe that Arthur and his knights, with Gwen, Baldwin and Tiberius, all pursued the werewolves from the gates to the borders of Camelot?

The physician nodded. "That is the word of the streets. During my rounds today and the past few days, it was all my patients spoke of. Many asked of what I knew, seeing as you were my ward and Arthur's manservant. Of course, I encouraged the, ah, _rumours_."

"None of them even seemed to suspect that..." Merlin made sure no one was near. "We were the beasts?"

Gaius nodded. "Good thing, too. Ever heard anyone say, 'It's so ridiculous, it must be true?'"

Now Merlin shifted uncomfortably. "And what about that hunting party? Gwen said the hounds were slaughtered, along with some of the men, by the Blackhands."

Gaius nodded solemnly. "That part is true. It is why the people are demanding that the last small pockets of Blackhands be hunted down and executed. By the words of Jonathan Vane, the man you helped capture weeks ago when you were first infected, there are small bands of Blackhands scattered about all over Albion. That part is a bit more difficult to deal with."

Merlin's face was drawn with worry. "But...but they could tell everyone the truth! They—"

"No one _trusts_ them, Merlin," said Gaius with dry humour. "Their actions to save themselves also condemned them. There is no proof. Not anymore."

The warlock relaxed somewhat. "And there's nothing they can do to save face. The werewolves are all gone, now."

"For our sakes, I hope so."

Merlin slowly opened his satchel, gently taking out an animal figurine.

"I'm not so sure I want to get rid of this," he said, looking down at the Silver Heart. "It's been so helpful, but...but..."

"It belongs here no more," finished Gaius sombrely, and Merlin nodded.

"I did promise to destroy it once the werewolves were vanquished."

"And have they?"

Merlin thought of himself and Arthur, both cured by the Heart after the beast blood tried to separate itself from them when in the presence of the Wild. He thought of Rowan, finally beaten by a creature older and bigger than himself. He thought of Hecate, how she had taken his curse into herself and became a beast of the wood for only a few short days before death claimed her at last.

The passing of the werewolves was the passing of a legend as old as mankind itself. Personally, Merlin couldn't be more relieved.

"Hecate never specified how to destroy it," he said, studying the Heart closely. "I thought maybe _Excalibur_ might do the trick."

Gaius lifted one shoulder. "Perhaps. Then again, it may be more simple than that."

Merlin caught on quickly. "Might as well give it a try," he said, before tossing the Heart over the edge of the battlements.

It took several tense seconds, and the figurine was lost in the darkness as it fell to the cobbles far below. But Merlin didn't need to strain his hearing to detect the shattering of silver and whatever cynical material the Heart was made up of. Not that it mattered. In a thousand little pieces, it could do no harm to anyone.

Gaius lifted his eyebrow into its signature arch. "Messy, but effective."

"And oddly satisfying." Merlin felt like a burden the size of a castle had been finally and fully withdrawn from his care. The ominous, looming storm clouds of worry dissipated in a cool breeze. It was so refreshing, so relieving, that Merlin simply heaved a contented sigh and leaned on the crenellations again.

He felt Gaius' hand on his shoulder.

"You've done me proud, Merlin," he said. "I can't even begin to express...I thought for sure that, this time, Camelot would be without the man she needs most."

Merlin nodded. "Arthur has never quite been so close to death, I think. If he didn't die from his wounds, then he—"

Gaius was shaking his head. "I wasn't talking about Arthur, Merlin."

The servant stared.

"I was talking about you."

Merlin didn't know how to reply to that. So he didn't.

Ͻ Ϫ Ͻ

"Don't forget to wash that tunic, Merlin. I'll need it for the banquet next week."

"Sire, you told me that three times already. I did it yesterday."

"Oh. Right. That'll be all, then."

Merlin cocked an enquiring eyebrow at his king, who sat slightly slumped at the table of his chambers. His face was bland in the candlelight, his eyes focused on something in another plane. The food before him was untouched, an unusual occurrence – the king had a love for steak. Yet, for some reason, he seemed to like it a little more rare than usual...

"Are you all right, sire...? Sire...? _Arthur!_"

With a rather violent flinch, the king returned from his dream world and glanced up at him. "Have you done as you were told yet? By the gods, you can a sloth! It's late and you haven't even...even..." He glanced around, trying to find something Merlin hadn't done. Which was to say, nothing.

The warlock gave his master a worried look. "Arthur, I already told you. I did everything you asked. Look, even the tunic's been cleaned." He opened the wardrobe to prove it. Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"Are the buttons polished?"

Merlin sighed with exasperation and slammed the door shut. "Four times. And I even enhanced your belt for you."

Arthur frowned. "You _what?_"

"Never mind." Merlin moved closer to the table, leaning on the backrest of one of the chairs. "Is there something wrong?"

"Actually, yes there is. Oh, but what is it...?" The king pretended to search for something in the room. Then his gaze returned to the warlock, and he looked astonished. "Ah, yes. You're still here!"

Now Merlin definitely knew something wasn't right. The jibe was rude and uncalled for. Now, that was the usual characteristics of Arthur's barbs, but in this case...

Merlin made for the wine cabinet (a new instalment since Arthur's rise to kingship) and pulled out spirits old enough to drink its own spirits. He snatched up a reasonably large goblet, stormed back over to where the king sat and slammed it down in front of him. Before Arthur could protest, Merlin jerked out the cork and poured him a generous portion. The bottle nearly shattered as he slammed it down as well.

Yanking out a chair, he sat beside the king and glared at him.

"What's wrong?"

Arthur was staring right back, looking astounded as such insolence. It wasn't unusual for Merlin to be impudent, but the king was starting to indicate that the servant had finally overstepped the final boundaries.

He felt a trill of uneasiness in his chest as Arthur continued to stare, and showed no signs of relenting his inner turmoil. But then he sighed, one hand lifting to finger his mouth and chin. His submitting eyes moved to Merlin's left side.

"You used your left arm."

Merlin blinked.

"To pour this. You used your left arm."

"Oh, yes." Merlin rotated his left shoulder as best he could, stretching it. "It's loosened a bit."

"Does it still keep you awake?"

Again Merlin blinked, his turn to look slightly astonished. "How did you know—?"

"Gaius told me," Arthur interrupted, and his gaze flickered down to the table and then off into the distance. Merlin frowned. The king never avoided his gaze like that unless he was feeling guilty.

"...Arthur?" No answer. "What—is—wrong?"

The king still avoided his gaze, and instead he stared at the goblet sitting before him, untouched. "I never told you how you got that silver in your shoulder."

Merlin continued to frown. "A Blackhand speared me. Or Baldwin. What has this...?" He trailed off as Arthur stood, slowly, like an aching old man. He moved to stand by the bed and leaned on the curtain post, staring out into the darkness.

"That night...the Blackhands were just milling about in confusion. You...had Baldwin at your mercy. The knights were lost in the chaos. I...I was the only one who had a clear line of attack."

A weird twist spawning in his belly, Merlin stood up as well. He took a few tentative steps forward. "You mean, you...?"

Arthur nodded. "It was me. I didn't want to tell you, but..." His stance looked uncomfortable, with reason, as his servant stared at the back of his head.

The burning memory of the poisonous silver coursing through his veins was fresh and vivid, clear like it had happened that morning. Unconsciously, Merlin reached up to massage the offending shoulder, as he often did late into the night. He was aware of that silver shard, now resting cool on his chest beneath his shirt.

He shook his head, brow creased with worry. "Damn it, Arthur. First you drag me along to attack the Blackhands, then you shove me into the care of Silverbloods. You almost rip me to pieces, near bite my arm clean off, and then you spear me with silver! If you wanted me dead this badly, why does it have to be so _dramatic?_"

Arthur turned so quickly, the warlock flinched. A muscle jumped in the king's jaw as his eyes snapped to meet Merlin's, who held his tight look of anxious consternation for as long as he could. But then he could not hide the spreading grin behind his eyes. The king saw that grin, and his brow furrowed even as it lit up Merlin's entire face.

"Why, you little—"

He lunged at his recoiling servant, teeth bared, and wrapped an arm around his neck. He pulled him into a bow and proceeded to drive his knuckles into the warlock's skull veraciously.

"Ow! Arthur, knock it off!" Merlin squirmed incessantly, but could not break free. "Help!"

"I'll show _you_ dramatic!"

Three bashes on the door to Arthur's chambers announced the arrival of two knights. Leon burst in first, Gwaine at his shoulder, just as Merlin made his move of self-defence.

There was the softest clinks of metal, the rustle of rubbing leather, and the king suddenly found his trousers hanging about his ankles. Needless to say, it was not a pleasant view for Merlin.

"My lord, we have found, uh...!" The knights froze, staring at what could only be the strangest of spectacles – Arthur with his arm around Merlin's neck, his trousers falling down past his knees, a bottle of strong spirits on the table.

Just the thing to ruin a king's reputation.

Arthur sputtered.

"Wha'...? Hey!"

The king shoved Merlin away and immediately yanked up his pants as Gwaine howled with unsuppressed hilarity.

"You had _that_ one coming, your majesty!" he crowed, holding his sides. Arthur cursed at him so foully his own mother would have slapped him, but that only made him laugh all the harder.

Merlin was grinning like a shark that had just eaten its fill as he stood and dusted himself off – that is, until Arthur turned is thunderous gaze on him.

"You..._enhanced_ my belt, did you?"

The warlock fawned. "It...it was just one hole shy of perfection!"

"_Perfection!?_ I'll show _you_ perfection!"

"I think you've shown me enough tonight, Arthur."

"ARG!"

It was a wonder that the table and chairs weren't sent flying as the warlock fled from the room at top speed, but it happened near enough.

"_MERLIIIIIIIIN!_"

**Ӎεӷȴįŋ**


End file.
